by Jackson Lear
I haven’t been able to blow off steam in two months and it’s driving me up the walls. In Spain three of us could speak the language to some degree. In Morocco a lot of the locals also spoke English. Here we need Ediz to communicate all the time and his accent gives him away.
22 September
Rachel was awake all night with horrendous cramps. She spent two hours squatting at the toilet with diarrhoea. She came back in a cold sweat. I asked if she needed the doctor but she shook her head and cried herself to sleep.
23 September
Cristina came to me and asked if Rachel was pregnant. Imagine my surprise with that. Cristina said there was so much blood coming out of Rachel that she thought she had a miscarriage.
25 September
A doctor came to see Rachel. I had to be there because I’m her husband. He wasn’t pleased to see that we were white and hiding in burkas and turbans. Nor was he pleased that Ediz and Cristina had to be there for translation and moral support. The doctor inspected Rachel with all of us in the room. It’s not the greatest of sights seeing your friend with her legs up in the air, sweating and bleeding, convinced that she’s about to die.
Rachel is not pregnant. Nor was she. It’s not pleasant to write about, but she had intestinal worms, probably from infected water or badly cooked meat. The three of us broke into a sweat when we heard that because we’ve been eating and drinking the same thing. The doctor didn’t give Rachel any medication. Bahija has some home remedies that she’s trying. We are all going to have to stay put to make sure we’re clear of worms as well.
Rachel’s now fifty three kilos. She’s lost more than twenty kilos since leaving England. I’m down to sixty five. I was seventy eight when I left. I was seventy two when I arrived in Madrid.
There’s no update from Clint. I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. I just want to know that Basil is okay but that asshole won’t reply to any of my emails. The lease is in his name and I’d kinda like to know if I still have a room in my apartment.
3 October
I honestly didn’t know what date it was until I asked Abbas. I’d lost track. It doesn’t even feel like the 3rd of October. I’m not sure what it should feel like, but to go more than a week without a diary entry is doing my head in, considering some days had eight or nine entries in them.
I’ve been learning phrases in Arabic thanks to Ediz. I had been doing the same with Spanish and Italian. I don’t remember any Spanish or Italian any more. Nor will I remember much Arabic by the time I get back home.
We’re leaving Ghardaia today. There’s a bus that can take us towards Tunisia. We were finally able to do enough work for Abbas to pay for a bus ticket for the four of us. He explained to the driver what the situation is. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to be leaving. All of that walking around through the city was a nightmare. The crates have given me blisters on top of blisters and my fingers are shredded.
The bombing of Algiers continues. The borders are closed. There are still some trucks that can get through but they are carefully inspected and bribes are needed. We don’t have enough money to bribe anyone.
Rachel is feeling better. Cristina had a bought of sympathy sickness. Our weight loss has stabilised. Our headaches have gone and our stay here has actually done us some good. I was able to send a quick email to my folks telling them where I was and what our plan is. Italy still remains the best option.
I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Every time we’ve travelled something has fucked us up and we’ve all been convinced that it would have been better to go in the other direction. We have no idea what we’re going to do when we get to the border. We have no idea where to go or who to speak to. We have no idea what will happen if rebels form a blockade and throw us off the bus. They’ll probably film us as they shoot us for being spies. I wish I was exaggerating about that part but I’ve seen the news.
The apocalypse was supposed to unite everyone against a common enemy. Instead it’s turned into a desperate grab for power and revenge.
5 October
I’m selling my soul to the BBC.
We were on the bus for fourteen hours and nearly died of heat and boredom. When we got to our destination someone in a uniform approached us. They put me onto the phone with a BBC news correspondent in Tunis, Tunisia. I was finally useful! I spoke to Simon Gillard, who, like other journalists in northern Africa, is kinda stuck where he is with no way out and are doing reports on life amid a zombie outbreak. He was able to convince the uniformed man to get us onto a train and fit us with Press Passes. We’re still in Algeria but we’re on the train now, heading north, so that we can cross the border. When we’re in Tunisia we’re going to call Simon again and he’ll get us to his hotel. He said it will take a few days to get there, but Tunis is not as badly affected by the outbreak of undead and guided missiles.
This kind of excitement is almost too much to bare. Hearing another English voice for the first time in months was a joy. The train is rocky and slow. We’re almost there. Just a few more days of traversing borders and unknown countries and we’ll be okay.
Part 2.
We’ve been stopped for six hours. Everyone was escorted off the train so that the police could inspect it. Then all of our IDs were checked and double checked. We were waiting outside in the sun for three hours, slowly burning to a crisp. We were shitting ourselves again but the Moroccans seemed to have done us a favour by stamping our passports illegally. We gave the police here Simon’s phone number. I don’t know if they spoke to him or not but the senior guy didn’t seem all that interested in dealing with the BBC.
Finally we were allowed back on the train. We were the last ones to board. Everyone was staring at us, blaming us for making them wait, thinking that we were causing their delay. We’re sitting quietly now, hoping that no one is going to pick a fight. I’ve been on hundreds of trains in my life and there is always, always someone on board looking to stir some shit up.
7 October
I am officially over this apocalypse. We’re still in Algeria. We’re at the border of Tunisia. We can see the Mediterranean. We’ve been on the phone with Simon several times already and we’re getting nothing from the border people. Simon has been trying his best to get every expat he can to his hotel. He’s been in contact with everyone he knows to bring everyone to safety. There are many foreign correspondents stranded around Africa and they’re all helping each other. The border guards aren’t helping anyone but themselves.
It’s been endless travelling and waiting and begging for help and never knowing where I am or what the morning will bring, but it has not brought me anything positive. I am over it. We’ve been eating street food and whatever we can find at convenience stores, but mostly Ediz goes in, murmurs in an accent, while the rest of us hide in an alley to stop anyone from reporting us.
We’ve had to explain our situation to the police so many fucking times. It’s the same story to the same people. I don’t know how many times we can keep going, but they don’t seem to believe us that we just want to get out of Algeria. Your country is being bombed to fuck by an American carrier group and your ‘rebels’ are actually zombies, of course we want to leave!
8 October
We found out why the police were unhelpful. They were stalling us. They called Boyer’s people and told them there are western spies here trying to flee the country. Just fucking wonderful, no?
We were on the street at one of the bus terminals when we saw the police pointing at us. We ran. For those first ten seconds we knew it was a mistake to run from armed police. They were shouting at us in the crowd and we were sure we were about to be shot. Literally shot. They were going to kill us, all because we ran like criminals.
We hid in an alley by crawling under a couple of dumpsters. I won’t describe the smell under there, or our nerves, or the state of our clothes and backpacks afterwards, but we stayed lying flat on our stomachs for an hour.
Boyer’s everywhere in t
he media now. He’s on TV, billboards, radio, newspapers, and he’s calling for the execution of all foreigners because we’re are all spies. That’s right, the leader of a country has called upon the entire nation to kill me because I’m white and trapped in their fucking country.
So we broke into a car and stole it. It took me ten minutes to figure out how to start the stupid thing. Ediz is the designated driver as he looks more Algerian than the rest of us. Rachel, Cristina, and I had to hunker down and not draw attention to ourselves, which is hard when we come to a stop at traffic lights and there’s a truck driver next to us staring into our car.
And, for the first time since arriving in Africa, I’ve seen an actual zombie. And not just one or two like in Getafe, no. I’ve seen five today. Most people were keeping their distance. Some drivers in vans and trucks must have been actively driving into them, squishing them on the road. We saw the remains of two dead zombies lying in the street, their stomachs squashed in by tyres. We’ve been hearing gunshots and alarms going on for a while. Explosions happen every couple of hours. I don’t know how much longer I’ll survive in a country that’s in the throes of a civil war.
We pulled over to find a map. Cristina noticed a zombie standing in the doorway just off an alley. It was standing there like some kind of bouncer at a night club. It turned and stared at us with its vacant eyes.
“We should go back,” I said.
The creature cocked its head to one side. After what must have been a fifteen second wait it finally said: “English.”
“Holy fuck, it understands us,” Rachel said.
The creature ran at us in a full sprint. Ediz shifted into reverse and got the fuck out of there.
Part 2.
We were able to get to a phone and we called Simon, told him what’s going on. He wasn’t happy with what happened to us. He asked us where we were and we had to give him some basic directions. He told us to stay put and call back after two hours, then he might have some good news.
We called back. He has someone coming to meet us, someone who works in the Algerian media who has ties with the BBC.
I wonder what will happen when I have to detail to the quarantine people in Heathrow my last three months. So far we’ve stolen a boat, a car, have crossed several borders illegally, which makes us undoubtedly criminals by any government’s standards. If I ever see a foreigner in England trying to make a few pennies to stay alive I’m going to give them money. I’ve been at this for almost three months and I want to die from shame and misery. I want to go back home, see Basil, have an hour long bath, and climb into my warm bed. I will happily do despatch invoicing for the rest of my days if it means I can have a reliable, yet unspectacular, life.
Part 3.
So I’ve just had a two hour interview for TV. I certainly wasn’t expecting that to happen this morning, but I definitely owe Simon and Billy a world of thanks for helping us all out like this.
Billy is Simon’s guy. He found us after a couple of hours. We were on the side of the road hiding in our stolen car, wondering if Simon’s guy would find us before the locals gave us away to the police. Billy put us in the back of his van and brought us to his TV station. We spent an hour hiding in a store room while he figured out what to do with us.
He found a journalist who spoke perfect English. He interviewed us all in one of the manager’s offices. The manager wasn’t there. It took us a while to warm up to having a camera shoved in our faces but the journalist was able to get us to tell our stories. I tried to look somewhat decent by rolling the sleeves of my shirt up to my elbows, but I haven’t had much chance to wash that shirt and it was kinda itchy. Billy said it won’t be aired in Algeria for a while, first he wants to get us to Simon in Tunis. We stuffed our faces with coffee, biscuits, and bagels when it was done.
The world around us is grim. Zombies have been attacking power plants by running at them in droves and breaking through doors, trying to make the whole place go critical. Security forces responded by protecting sensitive areas. So zombies started attacking power lines by climbing up the poles and pulling on the cables. Lots of zombies, dangling away, until the cables broke. If that didn’t work they would claw at the poles until they fell over. Then they targeted train lines by digging under the tracks. Eventually the train would nose dive into the ground and derail. If that didn’t work the zombies would blockade the tracks with rubble, fallen trees, or multiple cars that have been carried into place. Do you know how difficult it is to protect every inch of train line? They’ve also been breaking apart bridges with pickaxes, tearing up the ground so that nothing can drive over them.
The US President finally came out and addressed the world, telling us to pray and stay close to our loved ones. He said the Haitian (who still remains unidentified) has managed to rise from the dead and is able to control the recently deceased. He told us to stay clear of anyone who appears close to death but we should show restraint and calm.
The US have been attacking Algeria, trying to kill Boyer, who is now listed as one of the Haitian’s lieutenants. The Haitian has at least twenty known lieutenants around the world. He’s going for world domination. All of them were in Haiti in June. I’m willing to bet all of them died and were resurrected. I also bet this isn’t what the fundamentalist Christians thought would happen on the second coming of Jesus, where a dead man rises and spreads his word to unite the people. I know he’s not Jesus, but the amount of zombie Jesus jokes I’ve told in the past are finally coming back to haunt me.
Here is the latest tally of a select few countries.
Country Dead Infected Missing
Australia 250 120 600
Canada 1,000 200 800
China 13,000 1,000 1,000
France 3,000 6,500 4,000
Germany 7,900 1,100 12,000
Italy 7,000 6,000 6,000
Japan 500 500 1,000
Mexico 19,000 2,000 5,000
Russia 5,000 3,500 7,400
Spain 17,500 7,000 12,500
UK 8,000 2,400 4,000
US 24,000 5,200 18,000
The US doesn’t seem to be doing very well. Then again, they do have a monstrous population.
I asked if there was somewhere we could sleep tonight. Billy said he’s going to try to get us to the border at 3am, when everyone is tired and stupid. Cristina and Rachel are having a nap on a sofa while I’m mentally gearing up for being shot at by the border guards.
I asked Billy if I could send an email to my folks. So here I am, typing up everything from my diary and emailing it to myself and to my parents, so that there is at least a record of me being alive. There were a couple of emails from Alana asking if I’m okay. I guess that means she’s still alive, living the dream with her new boyfriend, while I picked the most fucked up time to go travelling through Europe.
Part 4.
It’s 4:30. At 3 o’clock we went looking for Billy and couldn’t find him. We saw a pair of police vans outside the building and feared the worst. We might be on our own again.
9 October
You were the brightest light in the darkest storms,
You were the music that put a smile on my day,
You were the sense of hope in a troubled world,
You were the best I could have hoped for in a friend.
My dearest Cristina, may you rest in eternal peace.
I will never forget you.
No one is safe anymore.
Part 2.
Rachel grabbed my diary and threw it against the window, shouted at me, then collapsed in tears. I tried to console her and she didn’t want anything to do with me, all because I was writing down everything that was happening to us instead of doing something useful.
There’s only three of us now and my world has been torn apart.
Billy never came back. We thought something had happened to him, like he was arrested by Boyer’s people. We called Simon in Tunis. He told us to leave. We found the keys to a van and drove off with Ediz at the wheel again
. We also swiped a company mobile phone so we can call Simon whenever we need to. The mass exodus of Algeria continues. The border to Tunisia looks is a mass of people trying to break through. There was a man on a speaker telling everyone to return to their homes, no one will cross this border.
According to the map there’s a national park that crosses the border south of us. If we can drive across, or even walk across, we would be one step closer to Simon in Tunis and a lot closer to mainland Europe again.
Going south meant heading through another city, the same city that used to be occupied by everyone scrambling at the border, willing to abandon their homes just to get out alive.
Billy’s phone allowed us to check where the road blocks were and hopefully how to avoid them, but the streets turn against themselves and the updates on the phone weren’t as reliable as we needed. We got stuck, wedged in between cars trying to U-turn in every direction. Every car was creeping through the red traffic lights, causing a nightmare of a jam. When people walked by they banged their fists against our van, shouting something about the news crew being scum.
It took us an hour to turn around in a ten metre space. There were gunshots in the distance. Smoke from fires. Barricades of burnt out cars. Shop fronts were torched. People were lying dead on the street. I refreshed Billy’s phone. Our road was blocked on all sides.
The gun shots were getting closer. All four of us were peering out of the windows, trying to see if we were up against zombies or militia.
