by Jackson Lear
2) If you’re forced to travel on foot (we’re assuming that cars and motorbikes can’t be used during the apocalypse), use a mountain bike as you can probably out-pedal something that’s on foot.
3) If someone gives you a machete to use on a zombie, give the machete back and tell them you’re not getting anywhere near that thing.
We ended up with a list of twenty things, but the other seventeen were misspelled ramblings in different languages.
Today we saw more herds of people being evacuated.
Rachel and I have enough rice and pasta to last us for about a month. It’ll be boring as all hell but hopefully it will be enough to keep us alive.
I can’t stop thinking about Alana. God knows I’ve tried but for the last two months she’s largely been the only thing on my mind. Europe has been a nice distraction but whenever I see a couple walking hand in hand I think of her. When I see a waif with long brown hair, a heart-melting smile and clumsy glasses, I think of her. I’m been flipping between a giant FUCK YOU to feeling directionless since we had the talk. I thought I knew what I was in for. The conversation went well, I felt good afterwards, I was back on the market. Clint offered me a beer and Basil fell asleep on my lap, though I’m sure he would have done that anyway. Then the next day there was an absence of text messages and it started to sink in. Then the next day, still no messages, like she had pushed me off into the discard pile. Then came a hell of a lot of second guessing, looking back over our time together, and wondering what everyone picked up on about us that I was oblivious to. I hate her for having me wrapped around her little finger like that and yet I love that someone was able to get that close to me and make me feel so alive.
I still never want to see her again. I just can’t help but think that it took me a year and a half to get over Vicky and then another year and a half before anyone showed me even the slightest bit of interest. I don’t think I can spend another three years going through that again.
29 July
It’s not everyday I get to use the word ‘plume’, but there’s a plume of smoke rising in the next suburb. There are two police helicopters hovering over the area, keeping a safe distance from whatever is happening down below. The police lights are bouncing off all of the buildings. We went to the roof to see what was happening. We couldn’t see much, but there was a lot of shouting, breaking glass and scraping metal, like a car was rolled onto its side and then pushed around. It’s coming from the area where people were being evacuated, so I’m guessing there’s a riot going on just one or two hundred metres away from us. Even the prostitutes on our doorstep are in hiding. We may have to barricade ourselves inside the apartment in case the riot spreads.
Part 2.
Yep, there’s a riot going on. It’s utter chaos in the suburb north of us. There’s a lot of cars and buses on fire. People are looting and grabbing what they can. How the fuck are we supposed to buy food if people are looting the shops we’re going to? Shop owners will be too afraid to open their stores if the people next to them were robbed. It’s just not worth it for them to take the risk. So those asshole thieves are going to turn the rest of us into thieves because no one is going to open their shop and risk being killed as no one has the money to buy anything. Just a handful of assholes are going to force a lot of misery and suffering onto hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people. But of course they would because they can only think of themselves and are incapable of expressing their anger in anything that isn’t a violent outburst.
30 July
We’ve been evacuated. I didn’t think our situation was all that serious until now, but … fuck, we’re in trouble. I’m at the Atocha train station with all of the housemates. There are soldiers everywhere, all wearing gas masks like they’re expecting to blast us with an anti-zombie chemical attack. I’ve been through Heathrow and wandered past Downing Street enough times to feel comfortable enough seeing a dozen steely eyed officers sporting assault rifles, but this blows everything out of the water. I would see four policemen at any one time in Heathrow. Here there are forty soldiers in sight and many more on the platforms. There’s a row of small white tents just behind the ticket turnstiles. You walk through and get sprayed with disinfectant. Then you’re given a tissue to wipe your face clean. Then you can move to one of the platforms.
I’ve packed my sixteen kilos. Add to that my five kilos of rice (and a few liberated items from the apartment) and my backpack feels like it’s trying to murder me. Everyone from the apartment is here, sitting together. There are people crying nearby. No one is telling us what’s happening except that we’re getting out of Madrid. But where to? No idea. Nor do they care. Us non-Spanish-citizens are obvious threats to the Spanish way of life so all that matters is that we are kicked out of their capital city as quickly as possible. There are four million people in Madrid, there’s no way everyone can be evacuated all at once. Where are we supposed to go? At least if they quarantined us in the apartment we could at least feed ourselves and live in something similar to comfort. But nooooo. We had to leave a relatively relaxed environment and be forced into a human pressure cooker.
There aren’t even any newspapers. I guess when the TV, phones, and Internet go down the reporters really have no way to find out what’s happening in the world.
I was here two weeks ago when I met Rachel. She took me to see the turtles in the station. The turtles have now been relocated, as the whole area has been sprayed with disinfectant and everything smells like vomit.
I guess the fight Cristina had with the landlady was for nothing. I also guess that infected people managed to cross the border before everything was sealed up. It might’ve taken them a week of being sick before they all died. We still don’t know who was being shot at the other night. They’re not telling us anything.
Rachel is bored stupid and is reading some weird sci-fi book. Louise is on the other side of me. I gave her my sudoku book to help her pass the time but she’s done six of the puzzles now and I want it back. Michael is listening to a few mp3s and Derek is hoping his phone doesn’t run out of battery.
It was weird how we were evacuated this morning. We heard a couple of authorative bangs on the doors at ten. There was a soldier at ours and he realised that most of us didn’t speak fluent Spanish. He said: “You all must go. One hour. Downstairs. Everyone must leave.”
Cristina went out to the neighbours and got a lengthier answer. Yep, we’re all leaving, the whole building is leaving, the whole street is leaving, we’re all going to Atocha. Pack what you can carry and let’s go. I grabbed a small pot with a lid from the kitchen. It belonged to the landlady. I consulted with Rachel first. She said to take whatever I wanted. I also took a wooden spoon, some steak knives, and plastic tubs.
So we walked. Everyone trundled along with 15+ kilos on their backs or carrying 20+ in wheelie suitcases. It took an hour under the blistering sun but here we are. Michael was hobbling the whole way. My thighs are killing me. I’ve been lethargic for two weeks. Hell, for the last week I’ve barely left the apartment. I can feel the burn around my neck from the sun. Louise is already in trouble from the sun. Rachel had the sense to walk with a big hat but her arms having taken damage already.
They guided us in wheeled tanks and trucks. Perhaps the soldiers were concerned that several thousand angry evictees could easily overpower a few guys on foot with rifles. We saw plenty of soldiers on rooftops. What we didn’t see were the snipers. I’ve been assured that they were there.
It was a pain in the ass of a walk. The crowd felt like Times Square at New Year’s. Now that we’re in Atocha, everyone is sitting around, waiting to get doused by the chemicals. Some have been leaving by bus, some by train. I hope we get to go by train. The buses suck. There’s nowhere to rest your elbow if you have a window seat and your knees bang into the seat in front. There’s more room on a train.
Someone needs to tell us what the fuck is going on.
One of the soldiers just walked by as his radio went off. T
here was a gun shot in the distance. High calibre with some punch to it. Cristina heard the message but didn’t quite catch what was said. Judging by the change in attitude in the soldiers, who now look like they’re on high alert, it doesn’t take much to figure out what’s happening outside.
How the hell did a zombie get this close?
Rachel just leaned over. She’s done with the book. She’s about two thirds into it and is giving up. She did say something interesting, though. So far we don’t know why we’re leaving Madrid. We all think it’s zombies or a great undead uprising but none of us know for sure. This could be just a mass deportation of unfavourables. Maybe there’s been a coup. It’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility. The lack of Internet and phones would also say that a coup is likely - it stops any kind of resistance from mounting.
After that bout of thinking, Rachel’s now listening to some music with her headphones in.
I don’t even dare use my tablet in case they confiscate it. There’s a camera built in. Much safer to write long hand in a notebook.
People in uniforms are moving past us with these large scanners, checking our body temperature. No one’s resisting. Nor would you want to, not when someone (dead or alive) was just shot nearby with what must have been a sniper rifle.
Part 2.
We’ve been sitting around for six hours now with nothing to do and no where to go. We’re just here, on the tiled floor, huddled in the middle of the Atocha walkway, protecting our bags. The station is packed to the point where we’re overflowing. There’s a gentle din of news going around. The soldiers have moved away. They were getting asked all sorts of questions and they were either saying, “I don’t know,” or, “I’m not allowed to say anything.”
One thing that did catch their attention was finding a zombie walking along the train tracks. It’s amazing how one little dead guy has now immobilised not just an entire station, but hundreds of soldiers and thousands of travellers. And there he was, one zombie wandering along the train tracks. Now the trains aren’t going anywhere. They shot him four hours ago and still there are no trains moving. So they’re either keeping us here overnight (please no) or no one is willing to get close enough to the zombie to move him out of the way. Why can’t they just drive over him?
It took Rachel two hours to get to the bathroom and back again. The line is huge and people are in there crying and keeping to themselves, instead of doing their business and leaving so that others can relieve themselves. Rachel just muscled into the men’s bathroom and went in there. It was either that or she would have pissed herself.
We’re all hungry. No one has eaten in twelve hours. I have a small pack of rice and pasta but I’m not going to eat it raw.
A number of soldiers are going around asking people for their passports. They seem to be targeting anyone that doesn’t look Spanish. The passport people have passed our group a few times and Ediz has been asked twice. I haven’t been asked at all, nor Rachel or Louise.
I can smell the disinfectant everywhere. Everyone has their hand over their nose and mouth trying not to breathe it in. Of course, the station is open to the elements down one section so of course we’re going to smell the entire city. It’s already made a few people sick, so we have to smell that as well. Every couple of minutes something pulls their nose and tries to find whoever just farted. Cleary someone’s been living off a diet of raw eggs and cabbage. And then there’s BO. My gym bag smells better than this place.
One of the people nearby just asked the soldier if we’re leaving to another city or if we’re going back to our homes. The soldier said he didn’t know.
Cristina was talking to another group earlier who had some information. They haven’t been running the trains because people on the platform jumped onto the tracks and ran off, presumably back home or to a friend. They think a hundred people have escaped. All were processed by the authorities in the tents and now they’re missing. They’ve been trying to find them all afternoon and until they do they can’t release the trains.
There’s shouting down one end now. I imagine a lot of people are sick of no one telling us what’s going on. It’s not just one person shouting, it seems to be everyone.
Cristina just leaned over and is translating. It’s a lot of, “You will have to shoot me because I’m going home.”
Some people are being carried away and screaming in protest. We’re looking at the faces surrounding us, trying to gauge their reactions. People are starting to stand up and watch. Some are voicing their support and shouting from across the station. Others are standing up just in case they get trampled
The soldiers are shouting, “Everyone sit down.” Everyone else is saying, “I’ve been sitting down for twelve hours, I’m going to stand up when I feel like it.”
More shouting. More screaming. More people being dragged away. Rachel has zipped up her bag and has her hand around the handle. We’re in the middle of the concourse so we’re in prime trampling territory.
About a quarter of the station are on their feet now. Where’s the nearest soldier? No idea. He’s probably carrying someone away. In fact, the more people they carry the away, the fewer soldiers remain in the station.
We out number them a hundred to one.
“Everyone sit down!” they’re shouting, now over the station’s loudspeaker. God knows how many tanks there are outside. If anyone runs they might as well be racing into a barrage of tear gas and bullets.
Ediz just stood up.
Part 3.
I was in a car crash when I was seventeen. Heard the tyres squeal and the felt the crunch of metal as we slammed into the car in front of us. The sound was the worst part. I’d seen the aftermath of car crashes before so I became inured to them. But hearing it … it’s like having your teeth removed. When I had my molars yanked out I could hear the pliers squeezing around my tooth as it dragged the decayed tooth out of my jaw. It’s been two years and I can still hear it. The sound stays with you, and that was just for a tooth.
I saw people die today. I heard them die as well. When you remember seeing something you can alter it, put some kind of spin into your memory and keep yourself from going insane, but there’s no altering the sound.
There was a panic and people were trampled. There were screams and cries for help. There were hands going up in the air and people falling over each other. There were shots fired from several directions. The soldiers were over-run as soon as one of them opened fire. There may have been thirty bullets in that guy’s rifle but at least a hundred people ran at him, all trying to get out.
Immediately afterwards there were riots, screaming, and looting. I guess the survivors of Atocha were in such a scared frenzy that they broke into shops to grab what they’ve always wanted as a giant ‘fuck you’ to the soldiers who kept them captive. We all ran as quickly as we could, hearing the riots around us. The helicopters came in closer and followed us with their spotlights running along the ground.
Madrid has just lost control. I’ve never been in a riot before. It’s something new to tell people, I guess. We escaped one zombie and a couple of thousand people in a panic. I’m not sure which of the two is worse.
It’s midnight. We’re hiding in a tunnel. Rachel, Cristina, and Ediz are here. I don’t know where the others are. There are some other people with us, I don’t know them but one was staying with people in south Madrid. I thought about heading back into the middle of the city, to the embassy or to our old apartment. Ediz told me that would be stupid.
From Atocha everyone just scattered in every direction. They all knew where to go except for me. Ediz grabbed onto my arm and pulled me after Cristina and Rachel. We stopped at the bus station next door. We called out to one of the French guys but he kept running. We heard frantic calls on the radio. The soldiers were calling for back up so we started following people who knew their way around. One of the guys in the tunnel said he used to live down this area and would walk along here drunk to get back home. The only proble
m is we’re heading south, near the train tracks where one of those things was seen walking around. If there’s one then there has to be more, right?
The adrenaline is not doing us any favours right now. Every time we hear something nearby we freeze and get ready to run. We don’t know if it’s the army, the police, more civilians (foreign or Spanish), the homeless or the undead.
I have no idea where we are or what we’re going to do. We’re just resting to catch our breath. We’re not talking to each other. No one is arguing. We’re just waiting.
I lost Rachel in Atocha for a few seconds and neither of us could see each other. What the hell would I do if I couldn’t understand what the soldiers were shouting? If I lose Ediz, Cristina, and Rachel I am royally fucked. I don’t have a hope in hell unless someone is willing to help me.
Hang on.
A helicopter with a search light just flew over head. I don’t think they saw us. If they had they would’ve kept us in sight until the military came to round us up.
Yeah, Rachel is starting to freak out. She’s asking Cristina how to say, “Please don’t shoot us,” and, “I can’t find my friend.” Great. What the hell does Rachel mean by, “I can’t find my friend”? She better not mean me. I don’t want to be lost out here in the middle of Spain with no idea where I’m going. I don’t even know if the rivers are safe to drink from. I should have stayed in Amsterdam. I may be a liability there as well but at least in The Netherlands everyone speaks English. I’d also be able to grab a boat or even swim home if I was desperate enough.
Okay, maybe I couldn’t swim home, not unless my life depended on it and the option was to drown at sea or be eaten by a marauding cannibal.
Rachel just slapped her book down, frustrated and needing to vent. “I can’t get those screams out of my head.” Neither can I. The sound of people screaming as they’re being crushed, not even just crushed on the ground while trampled, but people crushed against walls and seeing their eyes almost pop out … that look of sheer terror that they can’t breathe and that they are actually about to die while watching a stampede and no one is there to help them …
