by Jackson Lear
Someone else has come out now, tugging on the guy’s arm to get him to come inside. The zombie is looking at the pair of them. The second guy is walking back home now. He’s tried to get his neighbour to behave. He’s checking over his shoulder. The idiot is kicking the fence again.
Marcos is still on the phone asking for the policía.
Uh … the zombie just said something.
That brought silence to the whole street. Even the guy provoking her is silent, just standing there, dumb struck.
It spoke again. “Ven,” it said. I had to get Rachel to spell it out for me. It means, ‘Come,’ as in, ‘Come here.’ The zombie is looking up at the guy with her hand stretched out to him.
“Ven.”
I think the whole neighbourhood shivered at once. The guy is backing away, no longer so brave.
“Ven.”
Marcos is still on the phone asking them to hurry. The guy on the balcony threw another pebble at the zombie. She paid no attention to it.
“Ven.”
That … can’t be her voice. It’s too deep. She’s too little to have such a deep voice. There’s an accent there. The Spaniards are looking around at each other, trying to identify it.
“Ven.” She’s walking forward, still with her hand out for the guy, locking eyes with him.
“Caribbean,” Jorge said.
The zombie sounds as though she has either a very low female voice (and she’s petite, so that doesn’t sit right), or a male voice. She obviously can’t have a male voice, she’s female, but it certainly sounds like a man, speaking through a dead woman’s throat. She has lady bits from what I can tell. Even the man in front of her, by the fence, is referring to her as a ‘she’ and he has a better perspective than we do.
“Sounds Cuban,” Jorge said. Marcos and Ángel are nodding. Maybe she’s Cuban. It explains her faded brown skin. I have no idea what a Cuban accent sounds like and I don’t know how they can pick it up from a single word over and over again.
The zombie has shifted her attention. She’s turning around, looking at everyone watching her. I didn’t catch that last word. Neither did Rachel. Cristina did. “She said ‘Surrender.’”
She’s looking back at the man by the fence. “Ven.”
The man ran back to his house and slammed the door.
She just looked at me.
Everyone is on the phone now, calling it in, calling their friends and families, saying the zombie just talked to them.
The zombie has gone back to staring at the swings now. It’s like she was just possessed by someone and his attention drifted away. She’s just standing there, staring.
If these zombies are intelligent then we’re in a lot of trouble. If they are calling for us to surrender then that’s only going to inspire more fear and a lot of people are going to die in a panic.
No one seems to be willing to move until the zombie is gone.
Someone just shouted out … okay I can’t spell it all in Spanish. In English it would be: “Are you human? Or zombie?”
The zombie hasn’t moved.
“Puta!” a woman shouted. I know that one. ‘Whore.’
“What’s your name?” someone else shouted, a woman. Huh. It’s taken fifteen minutes before someone actually asked that. Why did no one else think of that earlier? “What’s your name?” she shouted again.
I guess none of us are leaving the roof top until the zombie goes away. She’s just standing there, looking at the empty swing. Maybe she’s remembering something, maybe she’s stuck and unable to move, maybe she’s just there to draw our attention.
Marcos has finally hung up the phone. Now he’s calling his brother in the south, repeating the “Ven,” “Surrender,” “Puta,” and “What’s your name?”
Jorge has brought up his computer and is checking the website. There is still only one confirmed sighting in Getafe. It will take them some time to upload a second one. Hopefully the police will come along and behave. Hopefully they won’t come into this house and arrest us for being the Atocha fugitives.
Ángel is saying we should all go downstairs and hide. We (the refugees) aren’t supposed to be here. The neighbours have seen us.
Part 4.
So the four of us just had a secret meeting. Me, Rachel, Cristina, and Ediz. We needed a plan. We couldn’t come up with one. The only thing we could agree on was that we were going to stick together.
Have you ever tried to agree on anything by forming a committee? We need a leader. I vote for Cristina. Despite that I said, “In certain situations trying to agree on something will cost us too much time and we might die. If we’re on a plane that’s being hijacked we need to fight back. If we’re pinned down by a shooter we can’t wait to be found, we need to fight back. If we’ve seen a zombie and three of us say to stay where we are while the fourth says to run, we all need to run. It’s better to take a chance than wait for death to become inevitable. We can’t argue. We can’t veto a command to run. We need to trust each other’s instincts.”
I was two sentences away from saying, “We shall never give in. We shall never surrender.”
Somehow they agreed with me. We shook hands.
I still think Cristina should be our leader.
Part 5.
Now that I’ve thought about it, Churchill’s speech is more appropriate to the zombie horde than to mankind. I had to Google it. I shouldn’t have.
“We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air (maybe not that bit), we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”
That’s the famous bit. Then it gets really depressing. He talks about the New World, with all its power and might, stepping forth to rescue and liberate the old. The New World of Zombies will have their power and might. They will rescue us from our mortal selves. They will fight in the fields and streets. We will run until we are forced to sue for peace. They will never surrender.
Part 6.
We’re in the kitchen. We’ve been here for twenty minutes. It’s impossible to talk about anything else.
“Do you think she’s a zombie?”
“Zombies aren’t real.”
“She’s real.”
“Then she’s not a zombie.”
It’s conversation like that. We’ve seen shit in the last couple of days that is not conducive to a worthwhile intellectual conversation. We’ve all survived the terror of Atocha, running from police helicopters, being attacked by a zombie and then followed by another. Now we have all of this crap happening outside.
The Moroccan girl, Lalla by the sound of things, has locked herself in the main bathroom. She’s crying and shouting for people to leave her alone. There’s a small bathroom upstairs she could have locked herself in, which would have been more convenient. Azeem is trying to talk to her, to calm her down and get her to come out. Marcos is rummaging in one of the kitchen drawers for a screwdriver. I guess he’s about to try and remove the handle from the bathroom door. What is it about dipshits who must hide in the most needed room in the house?
We’ve drugged Lalla. Marcos removed the door handle to the bathroom and Azeem, Marcos, Ediz, and myself went in to get her out. She was screaming at us like we were about to rape her. She fought us every moment and we had to carry her out into the kitchen. I had one of her legs. We then dumped her on one of the stools and gave her some tea to drink and told her to shut up. The tea is more of the Spanish herbal thing called ‘mah-teh’. Ángel made it for her and dropped a lot of marijuana into it. She drank it slowly, through a straw. She’s quiet now, just staring off into space.
Marcos said that if she does something like that again in his house, she’s leaving. Azeem nodded but stayed silent. We’re not sure what to do with her.
It was scary, going
in towards a screaming girl and dragging her away. My heart was thumping so much that every step felt like a full shudder. She kicked back and knocked me into the shower screen. Try as she might, my grip around her leg was stronger than her kick. That was the closest to a fight I’ve ever been.
She said she felt bad for the girl outside, the zombie, and wanted people to stop throwing stones at her and stop calling her a whore. There is obviously something wrong with the zombie woman but Lalla wanted to go and make sure she was okay. She was swearing at us for being assholes.
Cristina and Rachel are eyeing me up carefully, not saying much. Was it because I just barged into a bathroom with three other guys and dragged a screaming girl outside?
The police are outside. We have to be quiet. I don’t know what’s going on, we’re not allowed near the windows. I can see several flashing lights though. It’s taken them forty minutes to arrive. By the sound of things the zombie lady hasn’t moved from the playground. The police don’t want to go near her.
She’s staring at them, according to Jorge, who’s looking through the hallway window. She’s lifting her hand to them. Ángel is filming. He wants to send it to his brother.
She just got pepper-sprayed and didn’t react. They’re going at her again and she’s not moving, just standing there with her hand out.
We’re going in for a closer look, the police will be too busy to notice.
Yep, she got pepper-sprayed. Now here comes the taser. The police are shouting at her. She’s too quiet to hear but her mouth moves once in a while, enough to say one word. She just got tasered. She’s on the ground. The police aren’t going anywhere near her. There’s a police arrest-van with its door open. They want her to go inside on her own.
She’s back on her feet. Marcos is on the phone to his family, relaying the news.
She got tasered again. She’s on the ground, moving sluggishly. The police still won’t go near her.
Shit! The police just shone a spotlight through our window, trying to stop us from looking. Marcos, annoyed, told us to go and hide and not go anywhere near the windows. We’ve lined up in the hallway, listening to the commotion outside.
There are now shouts and calls from the neighbours, lots of them. They’re pointing behind our building. The police have repositioned themselves. Another zombie is on its way.
The power just went out.
We just went onto the balcony which runs along the side of the house. We can see the zombie stumbling along. It’s a man, different from the first guy we saw. Three zombies in Getafe. The police are trying to move in against him with pepper spray. They keep jumping away like they’re working up the courage to squash a giant spider.
That was close. Some of the spray just hit the side of our balcony. I can smell and taste it in the air. Makes me gasp. Pleh.
After who knows how many days, they still haven’t found a way to take people into custody without touching them. They need a noose on a pole like the ones they use on deranged dogs.
They’re backing up one of the arrest-vehicles towards the male zombie. They’re trying to get him to climb into the arrest chamber.
He just walked by. The police car is rolling forward, keeping it next to him.
Huh, one of the police officers out the front actually has a rope with him. He’s swinging it around, trying to get the woman.
Fuck, the police spot light just got me. I’m sure when this is all done they’re going to come upstairs and start taking us away as well.
Marcos just told us to get our bags and get ready to leave, possibly up to the roof and along the neighbours’. There’s no way off the roof. We’re three storeys off the ground up there and there’s nowhere to hide.
I’m on the roof now, looking down on the mess. The two zombies are talking at the same time. “Ven,” and “Surrender.” It’s the same voice. Not just the same accent, but the exact same voice, as though one guy from Cuba (or wherever he’s from) is talking through the mouths of that woman and that man at the same time.
Talking zombies saying the same thing the same way.
Marcos is talking to one of the neighbours up here. She’s an older lady and she’s waving us over. We can hide in her house for a while. Marcos is saying we should leave when the police are gone. We don’t know where to go. He’s kicking us out.
Part 7.
The older lady was nice. She allowed us to stay until 9 o’clock. That’s when the shops in Getafe started opening up. The lines were huge. It’s obvious we’re not Spanish and they’re treating us with suspicion, especially since most of us have backpacks with us and we stick out like you wouldn’t believe. We’re in a line now, waiting for food. The electricity came back on an hour ago.
The police lassoed the zombies and forced them into the back of the arrest-van. The other officers then came and looked around the neighbouring houses, including Marcos’. Marcos said that one of the neighbours had called the police on us, saying that we weren’t Spanish and that we were in Atocha. I don’t know how they knew we were in Atocha, maybe they just lied and got a lucky guess.
There’s six of us now. Myself, Rachel, Cristina, Ediz, Azeem, and Lalla. None of us are happy about Lalla but Azeem is trying to comfort her in Arabic. People have been walking by us saying we shouldn’t be here. Dickheads.
Part 8.
We were just rejected from the shops. It’s for Spanish people only, they say. Cristina tried her best but her accent is still Italian. She then started swearing at the manager and staff telling them that they were low-life racist scumbags. I swore as well, in English. The only reason I’m not more pissed off is because there was a couple behind us in the line who heard what happened and bought us the food we wanted with our money. They were decent, good people. We thanked them and they apologised for the assholes working here.
We waited in line for an hour and a half and it was only when we got through the door that we were told to piss off. They could have saved us some time and told us straight away, but no. I hope they fucking die and beg for help and no one comes to help them.
We went to another shop for another top up. We have food, mostly granola bars, carrots, and bottles of water. I bought a large box of cereal because it’s one of the only things still there. It’s going to be as dry as hell but I hope it will be filling and not too sugary. Most of the shops didn’t even open. We saw a delivery truck an hour ago but it’s the only one working. It’ll take a few more days before everything picks itself up again.
So now what? We’re sitting around, eating, with no idea what to do. Azeem says he has another friend who might still be here somewhere else in Getafe. Azeem has been our life-line and it sucks that I’m the only one who can’t speak to him. Great little tag-along I am.
Jesus, Part 9 already?
Anyway. We’re in a van! Azeem to the rescue! He bumped into his friend on the street, Carlos. Carlos is from Seville, south of Madrid. Carlos’ dad drove all night to come and get his son since Carlos was trapped up here with no transport getting in or out of Getafe, so his dad drove up to bring him home. He was stopped at three check-points and had to wait two hours at one of them just to verify his story. We followed Carlos back to his place and met his dad, who is a little wary of driving another six people back, but really he brought the van so Carlos’ roommates could leave as well. The roommates all left a couple of days ago so there’s enough space for us and we are on the road! Carlos junior convinced Carlos senior to offer the six of us a spare room in his house. How long for? No idea. We’ll have to figure out what to do when we get there.
We passed the first check point without getting stopped. We are now well and truly out of Madrid! Heading for Seville! Carlos senior says that things are a little more sane in Seville and no one has seen a single ‘zombie’. He doesn’t believe the story. The rest of us seem to flip from being 100% convinced to undecided. Either way there is definitely something creepy about the way those two people / creatures spoke with the same voice. Carlos didn’
t see any of the action from last night. Azeem has filled him in on the details.
Carlos senior has told us that the French/Spanish border is blocked, completely blocked, no one allowed to go in or out unless they are medical staff or recognised officials. That’s made Ediz and Cristina a little uncomfortable. There’s now no direct road back to Turkey or Italy. I wouldn’t even consider going to Turkey by road, it’s too far. The train from Paris to Nice was bad enough, taking four hours. Paris to Barcelona was supposed to take eight hours but we were caught out with a train strike and had to take a rental car from Nice to Barcelona. Ediz would have to go from one extreme end of the continent to the other.
Cristina and Rachel have fallen asleep in the back of the van.
We’re coming up to our second traffic jam now. The first one lasted half an hour. Carlos senior has the radio on but there’s nothing about the traffic. senior keeps saying, “Vamos, vamos,” while staring at the radio. We’re creeping along at a snail’s pace. There’s no where for me to rest my arms.
At best this would be a five hour drive.
Now we know why the traffic is so slow. There is an accident up ahead. I don’t think it’s serious, just a few cars shunted into each other, but it’s knocked out one of the lanes. Stupid drivers. You would think that if you’re trying to get to safety you might actually value your life enough not to drive like an idiot.
Rachel woke up, looked around, and went back to sleep again. Sounds like a good idea.
Okay, this is getting stupid. We’ve moved maybe a mile in the last half hour. I see a few motorbikes zipping past (which wakes us up) and the drivers here seem to have a hard-on for honking their horns. What the hell is up with that? If you’re stuck behind a mile of traffic that isn’t moving, honking your horn isn’t going to do anything. Nothing at all. Nada. And yet they still do it, and it’s not just one driver, it seems to be at least half of them. Yes, I understand you drivers are frustrated and want to spread the misery by irritating everyone around you, but this is a violence begets violence thing. The more you do to other people the more they do to you. With all of this noise it’s impossible to sleep.
