by Jackson Lear
The car crashed straight into a wall. Three people dragged the driver out and kicked him over and over again. He had his hands up for a while.
Rachel and Ediz ran back to me to see if I was still alive. Ediz wanted to beat the driver to death as well, considering the guy probably just killed a lot of people and would have killed more if he hadn’t crashed. We checked the bodies to see if Cristina was among them. She wasn’t. Nor was she anywhere in sight.
The locals were standing on the balconies and windows, pointing at the zombie, shouting to the crowd to tell them where to go. People on the ground were being stupid and weren’t paying attention. If a local pointed at a zombie some of the escapees thought that they should go in the direction the local was pointing. Idiots. It was only when we were on Calle San Pedro, another narrow street, that shit really got out of hand. The locals were looking in both directions and quickly slammed their windows shut.
There was a zombie on each end of the street. We were trapped. And, like I said, these streets are wide enough for just one car to drive and one car to park, so in one single step the zombie could cover each wall.
There was a lot of shouting but not a lot of screaming. Everyone was shouting at the zombie to leave and shouting at everyone else to back up and clear some space. The zombies kept approaching, closing in, saying over and over, “Surrender.” One guy near me dropped his backpack from his shoulders and used it as a flail, holding onto the straps and spinning it around to clobber the former security guard. It worked. The zombie fell and Mr Flail was able to get away. The zombie climbed back up as people were trying to run through the gap. I can’t believe how quiet it actually was when people darted past.
It caught another guy and lunged at full speed into his arm, biting through his shirt and spilling blood. The silence was over. The guy yelped in fright and pulled himself back, stumbling into the wall as the zombie jumped at him. Then he fell into a horrified, “Stop! Stop! No! Please! No!”
I didn’t help him. I had never felt my heart shudder against my chest like it had then; barely able to move and exhausted, knowing that I should try to help, but knowing it was too late to do anything. There was an opening on the street behind the zombie while it focussed on killing the man against the wall. People were pushing each other to the side as they tried to squeeze past.
I ran for it and had to hope like hell that Rachel and Ediz would make it in time. Rachel made it out after me. Ediz did not. He got locked in as the zombie turned on someone else and pinned them against the opposite wall. Then came another round of shrieks and screams. Ediz ran back the way we all came.
Thousands of people were lost and the sun was too high in the sky to know where to go. People were jogging and running everywhere. Some had no idea that they were running towards the walking dead. Others thought they would be safe if they went to the beach.
Plenty of people were hobbling with sprained ankles, broken legs, or holding their wrists after taking a fall. A lot of the survivors now won’t be able to move faster than a walking zombie. They might be dead by now too.
We made it back to the outskirts of the camp. People were moving through the tarps grabbing whatever was left behind before rummaging through the next makeshift tent. Asshole thieves.
Either way, the camp looked like another death trap. For all we knew there was a zombie waiting in there for us. Or someone who was bitten who would then turn into one of them just as we walked past. It would grab onto our ankle and pull us towards its jaws.
All the blue, green, and white bits of fabric were fluttering about, making it impossible to walk through safely. And that’s the problem with having a rendezvous point in the middle of obstacles like that.
Rachel assured me that Cristina would be okay. She has a knife on her at all times. I … did not know that.
People were already racing past us, trying to get back to the camp to grab whatever they had left behind. I figured the site was free of zombies since there were a dozen people running through without being grabbed and killed. If we had waited any longer where we were we would have been trampled by a hundred people who finally figured out how to get back to the site. We went to the second rendezvous point, by the track and field car park on the Mediterranean side of the beach.
We were the first to turn up. I expected the beach to be deserted. Nope. There were people sunbathing who were completely oblivious to the terror that was happening less than a mile away. People were scrambling about, wary of each other in case they were bitten. Rachel hit me on the arm for some stupid reason. I don’t remember saying anything that warranted such an attack.
From the distant north Azeem and Lalla emerged. For the first time since meeting her, Lalla was not crying. Go figure. We waited, watching more people come and go, hearing the occasional shot in the background, but for the most part it was quiet. You don’t exactly scream or shout when you’re trying to run and hide.
Ediz was next. He stumbled around saying that he had got lost and disorientated. He saw someone trampled to death. There was no sign of Cristina.
We waited. People were rushing the Gibraltar border not thinking that a zombie could easily do the same, but when you have it in your mind to reach a certain destination then by holy fuck that’s the only thing that matters to you.
Ediz and Azeem headed back towards the camp to see if there was anything salvageable from our tarp. They waited on the outskirts to see if they were about to face a zombie horde while the rest of us stared at the water wondering what the hell we would do if zombies came at us from the north and south. The guys came back saying there wasn’t much of anything anymore. People had grabbed what they could and scrambled before anyone caught them.
So, fuck, we’d lost our shade from the Spanish sun.
Two hours later, Cristina staggered along from the north. She had run clear out of town and reached the Atlantic side. She got separated in the crush of bodies and was hit by a car. It wasn’t anything too bad, she just banged her leg and fell on top of the bonnet. She hobbled away. It took her an hour to criss-cross the northern side of town and another hour to get back to us.
There was no way we were going to stay here with zombies walking around. God knows how many people were going to be turned within the next few hours. A dozen? A thousand? Not only that, we had no idea what to do as soon as it got dark. The adrenaline was going to keep us awake, no question there, but those things don’t need to sleep. We do. Eventually we’re going to have to find somewhere to hide and rest.
At six o’clock one of the Moroccans found us still standing on the beach. At last Azeem asked him how much the boat would cost. €2,000 per person. Azeem swore at him and by the sound of things he swore at the guy’s entire family as well. The Moroccan told us that was how much it cost and there are a thousand people here who will pay anything to get away. Cristina asked how much it was to Italy. €5,000. Let’s just be clear – from here to Morocco is about ten miles. It’s half the distance that people swim to cross the Channel. I’m not saying it’s doable for anyone but the best of swimmers but it shouldn’t even cost €200, let alone €2,000. Azeem death stared the guy and told him: “You show me the boat and then drop the price.”
“The boat will be here,” the man said.
“When?”
“When it gets here.”
So we waited.
Someone had fallen in their attempt to run and managed to injure themselves. He limped along with a grazed leg. It looked like another zombie attack and people were shouting at him to stay back. He insisted he hadn’t been attacked but we weren’t taking any chances. Someone shouted, “I have a gun. I’m going to shoot you if you come anywhere near me.”
I hope the police finally grew some balls and shot the zombies when they posed an actual threat. Meanwhile, several people had been injured and possibly killed because of the slow reaction by the authorities. A lot of people rushed the border to Gibraltar. More shots were fired, some people were tackled. I have no idea how
many people made it across but we should have done the same.
The boat to Morocco drifted through the dark without any lights on and without any power. Our ‘guide’ led a group of twenty people up the shore for an hour for a meet and greet, away from civilisation so that no one could see what we were doing. I thought he was about to pull a gun on us and take all of our money. He was doing that slimy charismatic thing of constantly reassuring us that the boat was just up ahead, but he was reassuring us so often that it was no longer reassuring. Rachel squeezed my hand the whole trip. She knew it was a bad idea. Ediz kept flexing his fingers, readying himself for a fight. Cristina told Rachel that if anything happens, gouge their eyes. That’s all it would take – gouge their eyes. And don’t be a wimp about it either. Take their fucking eyes out. Then they won’t be able to chase you.
“It’s just up here. Not far,” the Moroccan kept saying. Meanwhile, none of us had the money to pay.
“Not far now.”
It looked like a tug boat, a sorry sight with a crew of four who didn’t seem at all happy to see us. They were as paranoid as anything, kept looking around for the police or coast guard and kept harassing our guide as though he was late. Then came the squabble over money. Azeem did most of the talking and it was good to see someone actually in control. He looked around the twenty would-be passengers and knew none of them wanted to go and that none of them could pay the full amount. He said the most we will pay is €100 each. The Moroccans baulked and told him to go fuck himself. Azeem told them that it’s either €100 each or they spend the whole night squabbling over money and get caught by the coast guard and have their boat sunk. When they swore at him he knew the slang and swore back. When they threatened to leave he called their bluff and said that there was no way they were going to leave empty handed. Even €100 was better than nothing. They swore about the fuel it cost to do the journey, the risk, and Azeem counter-argued and would not budge from €100.
This went on for hours. At one stage someone got pissed off enough that he handed over all of his money and just climbed onto the boat. It was like a bitch-slap in Azeem’s face. Then Ediz had the balls to just push €100 into the guide’s hand and climbed onto the boat along with a threat of what he would do if someone forced him to get off. Azeem turned to the crowd and said: “€100 everyone. Let’s go.” Money was exchanged, people climbed on board, and now it was up to the Moroccans to argue amongst themselves.
Needless to say, time became a pressing issue. The boat people insisted on collecting more money from everyone on board before they left. Some gave, some didn’t. There was a lot of shouting at passengers and at one point twelve men stood facing the Moroccans and it became clear that a fight was about to erupt. Everyone had already decided on the level of violence they were willing to commit.
I certainly had. We out numbered the boat people. We could take it from them.
Once again our guide tried to calm everyone down by asking for more money. Azeem offered €10 more once they get to Morocco. Yeah, he was being an asshole, but it was after midnight at this point and who knew how many zombies were out there by now. They’d had fourteen hours to strengthen their numbers.
At 1am we pushed off, now exhausted and done with arguing. They tried shouting at us again and we had just grown silent. Our minds were made up and we were bored of not going anywhere. So, with our crew very pissed off and our guide staying in Spain, we pushed off and puttered through the Mediterranean towards Africa.
All we knew was that staying in Spain hadn’t worked and come morning the area would be overrun with zombies. Yes, it is going to be a shit-storm when we get to Africa without visas while trying to find a way back home, but this was something I only really considered while actually on the boat. It dawned on me that I had only followed the pack because someone was in charge. Azeem told Cristina that it might be easier getting to Italy through Africa than from Spain. That certainly seems true from how closed off Spain felt. So I guess Rachel and I are going to follow Cristina and head to Italy as well. Ediz too. Azeem said he would help us when we arrived to secure some kind of transport, maybe another boat or possibly a plane. At this stage I’m willing to hire a private jet to fly us anywhere, but I don’t fancy the idea of being shot down over the Mediterranean.
I was sure the Moroccans were about to pull a gun on us and demand more money. Maybe they would throw us overboard, but no. They remained quiet and for three hours we puttered through the darkness. We landed on the east cost of Morocco, just south of some place called Ceuta. Apparently Ceuta is an exclave of Spain. It is to Spain what Gibraltar is to England.
The boat pulled up to a shabby dock just before 4am. We paid more money to leave.
So, yeah. We’re now in Morocco. Azeem kissed the ground, Lalla hasn’t cried once, and I’m wondering how the fuck this is going to help me get back to England.
We’re in front of a small town now. Azeem went to talk to some shop people as they were opening up, telling them of our situation and asking some basic questions. Someone gave him a phone to use and he called home. One by one we were allowed to use the phone but I couldn’t get through to my parents. Rachel couldn’t get through to hers either. We went to the back of the line and waited again, but there was nothing on our second attempt either.
Cristina was able to speak to her brother in Milan. His wife’s family are from Sicily so he gave Cristina the address in case Cristina needs to go there. She came back with tears in her eyes and said the Prime Minister lied about the number of zombies in Italy. It was supposed to be around 20 and that was all. Nope. 500. 100 of those are in Milan. Cristina’s family have boarded up the house and only leave when there are armed escorts.
Azeem came back with a newspaper. Things are … kinda shitty around the world.
Algeria – there’s an uprising and it’s as violent as hell.
Saudi Arabia – overthrown by rebels. Loyalists are fighting them and claiming that the country hasn’t been overthrown at all.
Syria – nothing but terrorists, rebels, and zombies.
Spain – the President has resigned over the handling of the crisis and admitted that shutting everything down was a stupid, stupid mistake.
Italy – the Prime Minister lied about the zombies and claims that he was relying on news that was several days old.
UK – has not pulled any troops out of the Middle East. That sounds like a defensive strategy to me, waiting to see what happens with the surrounding countries. The UK is in a complete lock down.
US – They’ve invaded Haiti, for some reason. They went in and bombed the fuck out of the country. Drones are flying overhead and ground troops are going door to door. There’s no oil in Haiti so why the fuck are they there?
Last world wide count of zombies (which may include deceased zombies, if that’s the phrase) – 17,800.
So … shit. 17,800 zombies in two months. It’s spreading, no question. And they’re saying every single one is roaming around saying, “Surrender,” all in the same voice. Satan is taking over the world. In a week there’ll be at least 10,000 more zombies. There’s no central basing, no obvious command. Nor is there any kind of sensible way of dealing with these things either. An army may be able to fight another army quite well, that’s what they’re trained to do, but they’re terrible when it comes to individuals. There’s also no intelligence info the NSA can use to anticipate the next attack.
My money isn’t accepted here. I have no food, no water, I don’t speak the language, and it’s now harder getting back to England. Why the fuck am I even in Africa? I’m sure I’ve lost my job by now. I just want to go home and see Basil.
Part 2.
Okay, I came down pretty hard on Africans in Spain earlier. Two people have turned me around – Azeem and Mel.
The moment Azeem landed in Morocco he set to work to try and get everyone back home. That’s no easy feat since there were twenty of us on the boat. Some people would’ve high-tailed it the moment they landed on th
eir home shore in case the police turned up and arrested everyone. Azeem is acting like the United Nations here, calling up everyone he knows and trying to sweet talk the locals into helping us illegal Europeans.
The next saviour until the end of time is Mel. She’s a local. She heard about our landing from a friend of a friend so she came to see if she could help. There we were, standing by some shops wondering if we were about to break into them. Then along came Mel. We wondered if we were about to have some trouble with her. Nope. She began blabbering away in English, courtesy of her being a former exchange student at the University of Maryland. In a word, she’s adorable. She invited the twenty of us back to her small apartment so that we could use the shower and have something to eat and drink. Who are we to pass up an offer of hospitality like that?
Her English name is Mel. She did give us her Moroccan name but it’s a mouthful, so Mel is easier to remember. We’ve been using her computer, drinking her tea (caffeine!) and having flatbreads and hummus.
It really is a small apartment, just one bedroom and one mixed kitchen/meals/lounge area. There’s a communal bathroom down the corridor but she said no one should give us a problem as long as Mel’s front door is wide open. She’s already learnt all of our names, knows where we’re from and is doing her best to help us.
So, yeah, I may have been a little harsh on Moroccans. Azeem pulled through for us, Mel is awesome, and Lalla … has calmed down a little. There’s a bus this evening. Azeem is hoping to be on it and arrive home tomorrow morning with Lalla by his side. With any luck, their ordeal will be over.
