Last Words

by Jackson Lear

  Ediz slammed on the accelerator, knocking the three of us back. “Hold on to something!” he shouted.

  He side swiped a parked car, bounced up onto the footpath, knocked over what must have been a stop sign, and broke through the edge of the barricade. We didn’t hear any shouting or gunshots. We’d popped a tyre, though. It was like trying to drive with a washing machine going through its full spin cycle in the back.

  “It’s not my car, I don’t care,” said Ediz. We kept on going for another few minutes until a teeth-grinding clunk killed our front wheel. We couldn’t steer anymore.

  If we had stopped and got out thirty seconds earlier Cristina would still be alive. Maybe Ediz, Rachel, or I would have died in her place, but in that moment whichever god was looking out for Cristina had his back turned against her.

  There was an explosion down the street, like a café had just been bombed. People ran in our direction, cars hurtled down the street, and whoever was driving was more interested in watching what was happening behind them than focussing on the road in front.

  I saw the quickest flick of the steering wheel before the driver even hit the brakes. The other side of the road was blocked with oncoming cars that had ground to a stop. There was only one free area the driver could go – the footpath. The footpath that four of us were standing on.

  In a city ripped apart by a coup, a civil war, and the undead, it was a dipshit cunt fuck up of a driver who killed Cristina.

  She had managed to turn at the last second. When I got to my feet I saw that she was trapped against the ground with her backpack under the car. She was gasping. She had taken the full force of a car crash against her back, went face forward into the pavement and hit the ground with the full weight of a car on top of her.

  Half of her –

  I don’t think I can do this.

  Half of her head –

  No. I can’t.

  She was crushed. She stopped breathing before we were able to pull her free.

  The driver got out of the car with a banged up face and blood spewing down him. He pointed at us, shouted something, and ran off.

  Some of the bodies from the explosion up the street didn’t stay down. Some slumped around and fell over again. Some crawled away, some tried to push themselves up and collapsed from a lack of strength. Others … were no longer human.

  I can’t remember who pulled me away. I can’t remember much except for running. I just have a final image of Cristina with tears in her eyes with some kind of recognition that this was it.

  All we needed was to have stopped thirty seconds earlier and my friend would still be alive.

  There was another road block in sight. The air was scorched with smoke, gun shots, cars and trucks blasting their way through traffic. I figured out what the first explosion was. The militia were fighting a nest of undead. They blew up a building the zombies were hiding in. The moment the dust cleared we were met with a dozen guttural howls, like a tracheotomy ward was trying to clear its throat from phlegm. There was rapid fire gunshots as the zombies were lured out into the open. Moments later there were more gargles, more gunshots, then less gargles and less gunshots. There was not a single scream or cry for help.

  I peered around the corner. Something like twenty bodies were lying face down on the ground near our van. There had been cars on the road, people walking by with no immediate sign of trouble. Then: boom, gunshots, gurgling, more gunshot, bodies. We were just there and now there were dead people in the street.

  Why the fuck did we choose this street over all others?

  Whatever happened with the militia must have triggered some kind of immediate retaliation from the Haitian. The streets around us were silent. The ones in the distance still had the hum of traffic. Then came a new hum.

  We had to go.

  But where?

  We needed binoculars and we had none. We checked the phone for any information but the refresh rate was only suitable for walkers, not runners, and only if people took the time to register every single zombie in sight. We had no idea if we were being boxed in or if there was an opening somewhere nearby.

  We stopped in an alley, climbed up onto an upturned bin, and broke a window with the jab of a knife. We scrambled inside and waited. The howl came within seconds. The Haitian sent everything he had at the militia, trapping them in. Pops of gunshots echoed through the street. Wisps from bullets streamed past us. And we had nothing to do but wait to die.

  We didn’t dare move for three hours. When we did it was only because the news on our phones was telling us that things were about to get a lot worse. I think that was the first time any of us spoke to each other.

  We headed downstairs and found the front of the building had been smashed open. Outside were bodies piled on top of each other. Cars were on fire. Gun shots were distant. Zombies didn’t seem to be in sight. We had an hour’s worth of sunlight left.

  We’re in a car now. I’m in the back on my own because Rachel is still pissed off with me and my diary. One of the dead bodies had car keys in his pocket. We tried maybe a hundred cars on the road before we found his. There’s not a lot of petrol in the tank.

  We’re heading south. Again.

  Part 3.

  We’ve stopped for the night. We ran out of road. You know what’s a bad idea? Driving through an unlit national park at night time. We couldn’t see the massive ditch that we drove into. The car is beached and not going anywhere. We’re going to sleep here for the night and walk in the morning. In a straight line we are a hundred miles to Tunis. If we walk it will take us three days. By now I should be aware that my guesstimates with time and distances are wildly ambitious, so let’s just assume that we won’t arrive for another month.

  10 October

  None of us laughed, but I have another joke from the Ediz archive. What’s the most difficult thing about cooking a vegetable? Figuring out what to do with the wheelchair.

  Anyway. Cristina’s head against the concrete is the only thing I’ve been thinking about. She had tears in her eyes. None of us slept last night.

  We’ve spent all day walking through the wilderness. It’s a grassland area with the occasional tree in the distance or swamp for us to avoid. I have no idea where we are except that after eleven hours of walking we are most certainly in Tunisia. We can hear a highway in the distance but can’t see it yet. The one thing I can describe about this parkland – bugs. Motherfucking bugs. Lots of them. I’ve spent more energy swatting them away than walking. You know how the dream is not that everything was easier, just that you were better at everything? Not this time. This is the perfect time when I wish everything was easier. I don’t want to be better at walking through Africa swatting bugs away from my ears, I just want the walk to be a quarter of the length and the bugs to be a thousand miles away from me.

  We’re out of service range on our phones. Someone’s going to have to tell Cristina’s family.

  11 October

  We’re in Tunis. We made it to the hotel. We’ve met Simon. More updates tomorrow.

  12 October

  Here’s the summary: we continued walking along the edge of a highway for hours until we got to some place called Beja. We were able to swap our dead mobile phone from Algeria for the use of another one by a driver who stopped to see if we were okay. We called Simon, Simon spoke to the driver to see where we were, the driver drove us to where he was going, which was Majaz Al Bab, and Simon sent a news van to come and get us. The drive to the hotel took two hours. We passed several check points but we had media passes that said we were journalists. Back in Algeria I was married. In Tunisia I’m a journalist. I’m hoping in the next place I might get to be an astronaut or something.

  We got to the hotel and met Simon. He’s from Bristol and has saved our arses so many times over the last few days that I will never be able to repay him. We met with several international journalists. They gave us food, we had a shower, then we did a number of interviews with different journalists asking us
the same sort of questions. I made a vow not to talk about Cristina on camera. I can’t deal with it right now. I answered their questions matter-of-factly. Simon expected four people to arrive. Three showed up. As long as I don’t mention her name on camera then they won’t see me break.

  Rachel, though … That was the first thing that spilled out of her. She burst into tears, saying that she saw her friend die. I walked out of the room, ready to punch someone. I shouted at Rachel later, that she was willing to tell the world that Cristina was dead before her family even found out. That didn’t go down well. Simon handed me a satellite phone. I must have paced around our room for half an hour before I even knew what to say. I dialled and hung up so many times that I started to berate myself for being a coward.

  Simon came in, dialled the number, and handed me the phone. As soon as someone picked up he left.

  I’ve never had to tell someone that their daughter died in front of me. Her parents knew of me. And Rachel and Ediz. Cristina had given them my contact details and told them who she was travelling with. Her last email was in Morocco. They asked if Rachel and Ediz were still okay. I might be over thinking it, but I’m pretty sure they were wondering why the one person to die happened to be their daughter.

  Even though Simon left me in peace I spent most of the phone call in the bathroom behind a locked down. A couple of hours later I was still balling my eyes out. All I needed then was half a dozen people to break open the lock and drag me out like I was useless lump of a human being. I guess I owe Lalla an apology.

  At dinner Simon said that the more I do and the more famous I become in my travels, the more likely it is that I can write a book and have it published. I told him that I’m writing a diary about my experiences. He said that would be perfect. I also have photos of zombies and places on my phone. I’ve recharged that and loaded what I have onto my email account.

  Rachel and I have a twin room to ourselves. The BBC are covering our expenses and Simon said not to worry about it, it’s an international hotel and people are treated well here. There’s also an aircraft carrier off the coast. Jets are taking off day and night as they bomb the fuck out of Algeria, trying to take out Boyer. Let’s hope they get him before he creeps into Tunisia.

  I finally had a decent meal. Stew and couscous. Chickpeas, chopped potatoes, onions, and tomatoes. Plus pepper. Lots of pepper. How the hell do you eat couscous with a fork?

  We asked if it was now possible to return to England. Simon said we would be quarantined for at least a month before we were allowed back in. That’s fine with me, since I’m interpreting that as twenty four hour room service and a bed. They’ve set up a couple of quarantine centres on the Isle of Wight, Isle of Man, and even up on the Scottish Hebrides. The restrictions in and out of England are still fierce, especially from Tunisia, since we are so close to Algeria and this zombie warlord.

  England is not doing too well. There are riots everywhere. The government is enacting strict new laws and they are starting to force people to work. If you were unemployed, fear not! Now you’re working, whether you want to or not. Were you too fat and on disability? Now you’re working.

  My clothes have all been washed and my bag has been packed again. You never know when you need to run at a moment’s notice.

  I can’t stop thinking about her head.

  14 October

  Not much happening here. We’re not allowed to leave the building. We take turns on the computer and are able to call our families. I spent an hour in the bath this morning, just soaking myself, listening to some music through my phone. Pink Floyd. Not quite bliss, but certainly better than stumbling through Algeria.

  Clint is alive. He’s in Essex with his folks. Basil is with him. Our street was set upon by zombies so he left. I wish I could say that I was happy about that, but I’ve been too pissed off for days that I can’t even properly function. He’s not in London and has no plans to return. I’m not in London with no way to get back. He’s decided not to pay any rent on our flat. What about my things? “It’s just stuff,” he says. That’s not how it works, asswipe. I want to be able to choose what to keep and what to ditch, I don’t want that to be all up to you. I have my computer, camera, and guitar. I have clothes. The landlord is just going to take all of that for himself when you don’t pay rent. “You can always buy another computer,” he said. What about everything on there? There’s more than just games on there, there’s ten years worth of diary entries!

  I’ve been staring at my flat key for a while, going crazy about not being able to save my things.

  Rachel is making do. We’ve all been checked out by a doctor and we’re all on pills for worms, in case we’re still infected. It’s not great to talk about, but considering it might have killed Rachel it’s better having pills for something awkward than writhing in agony. I’ve been sleeping twelve hours straight since getting here, trying to make up for all the sleeping in cars, vans, on sofas, or on floors for the past eon.

  We got into contact with Moroccan Mel. We thanked her immensely and gave her an update of what’s been happening with us. She’s doing okay. Her neighbours (the ones who literally threw us onto the street) ignore her but nothing much has changed. We were able to speak to Azeem in Rabad. He and Lalla are doing okay. We spoke to the families of Katy and Sofia and they are doing well. We asked them to thank their daughters for their help and it was nice to hear their relief that their little ones have grown up to become decent people. Unfortunately we weren’t able to give them any news about where they are, only that they helped us in Madrid. That wasn’t entirely true, but I’d want them to tell my folks that I was something of a hero during an apocalypse. That kind of pride would last them a lifetime.

  People all over the world are having their pets euthanised. I guess they’d prefer to have someone else put down Waffles or Whiskers so that they don’t attack them when they join the league of undead.

  Rachel seems to constantly murmur in her sleep these days.

  16 October

  One of the more horrendous ideas that has popped into my head is thinking about the actual state of mind of the undead. Some of them still remember their names just after they turn. We’ve seen that happen. If there is actually someone else controlling them then what if it takes that person some time to assume full control? You would feel your ability to control yourself slip away. They might still be conscious as they lumber around for days or weeks, recognising the streets they grew up on? They could be like those paralysed victims, trapped in their own bodies, unable to express themselves and ignored by doctors and nurses because they haven’t found a way to respond.

  What if these people are killing their families while realising what they’re doing?

  Part 2.

  Do you know there are evangelicals all over the world raising money and not putting it to good causes? They’re building fortresses for themselves, hiring private security teams, and buying attack helicopters. Bullshit charities have sprung up to help the victims of the apocalypse, only the money is going straight to criminal fucktards. What used to be multi-vitamins now flood the streets as ‘cures’.

  I keep dreaming that I’m in the middle of a semi-destroyed city. It’s been hit by bombs and explosions. I have no idea how I volunteered but I’m forming a human chain, linking arms with hundreds of others in a show of peace. I’m hoping that this sign of humanity is enough to stop the hundreds of zombies racing towards us through the streets. We can hear their snarls getting louder. We can hear them climbing over trucks and cars that were used as barricades to keep them out. Our peaceful act will stop them. They might have killed the first human chain, they might have killed the second. But we are confident that they won’t kill us because we are protecting children and pregnant women. The creatures will stop. They will turn around. They will listen to us when we ask for peace. We will argue about how to divide this small patch of land that they so desperately want, but we will be fair.

  Then I feel the push coming from
behind like a mosh pit surging forward, only now I can’t get my arms away from those linked to me and the zombies are still racing forward, snarling, about to kill me. And then I recognise the first and second human chains of peace are front and centre, about to attack us because we mean nothing to them.

  20 October

  Sometimes the news decides not to air stories of a graphic nature. But that’s all we have here. Stories of a graphic nature. We’re surrounded by journalists who need to share everything they’ve just seen. So now I’ve seen it as well. Sometimes they need someone to see what they’ve seen, not because they have a story of a life time, but because they need to offload some of the misery. I’ve seen too much unedited footage from survivors.

  Yesterday there was a boy walking through the streets of Syria in his blue pyjamas. Someone shot him in the stomach. He didn’t even flinch. Just kept on walking. Someone shot him in the head. Half of his skull just exploded away. He didn’t drop down like you would expect. He looked down at the ground where bits of his head had fallen out. He staggered from side to side to regain his balance, swaying like Clint does after downing half a dozen shots of Sambuca. The boy reached for the ground as though he had dropped something important. Bits of his head continued to fall out. Then down he went. After a moment to regain whatever senses he had, he crawled forward. Someone shot him again, this time in the side of his chest. He didn’t flinch. Just kept crawling forward. They shot again and again. I asked Lachlen to put his phone away. He told me the video went on for another twenty minutes. By then the boy had crawled close enough for one of the shooters to get a point blank shot, taking out the rest of his head. He stopped crawling after that.