Ediz has a theory. “Maybe they were bitten by the same person. It could be some guy’s last words as he died and now they’re all stuck saying it because it’s what they hear as they’re dying and it’s what they say as they’re killing the next person.”
“Why are they saying ‘surrender’?”
“We’re only hearing two words out of context. The guy, the first guy I mean, could have had friends over his shoulder and he’s saying ‘Come on! We will never surrender!’ But now because his brain is mostly gone he can only repeat two words, again and again, like a song that skips two seconds when you play it, but it’s the two important words that he’s remembering. As he’s biting other people they’re hearing it and repeating it on to the next victim. Who knows, it could easily have been ‘please.’”
If that’s true, I wonder if the English zombies are saying, ‘Pardon me.’
Anyway, I’m not sure how that would work but I guess anything’s possible. Right now Africa is sounding better by the hour. We’re only hearing about this mess in Europe, the US and Canada. Oh, guess what the Americans have been busy doing? Buying all the guns they can and supporting their Second Amendment Rights. I should’ve bought shares in Heckler & Koch a week ago.
Part 3.
Lalla locked herself in the bathroom again, crying. Jack climbed in through the window and opened it up. No one is happy with her for locking us out like that, the selfish bitch. Why can’t she just keep it together and think of other people, especially as she’s a guest in someone else’s house?
Ediz and I talked it over quickly. There’s no way either of us want to head to Morocco with Lalla. If we have to put up with her bullshit and anti-social behaviour then it’s just not worth it. She’s about as useful as one of those zombies. So, if she gets us kicked out then we should ditch her.
Part 4.
I had an intriguing idea earlier and I’m glad I’ve now acted on it. I was trundling through the streets, staring at all the cars, thinking about the practicality of a zombie apocalypse. I tried to reason with myself that there is no way any government could let this thing explode out of control. In the movies the zombies seem to take over within a single day, leaving the survivors with whatever basic knowledge and skills they have. I can’t do shit. I can sit at a desk, check invoices and answer the phone. As far as usefulness goes in an apocalypse I’d fall somewhere in the category of ‘human shield’. I guess that’s one reason why I’ve been struggling with this for the past few weeks – I am epically useless.
So I was walking around, coming up with scenarios and strategies, thinking about what I would do if a single zombie came around that corner, or if a horde of them started chasing us. Best thing I could do: jump into a van, hot wire it, bulldoze my way through them and out to freedom. If I get bogged down, grab a shotgun and start unloading on the fuckers. When I’m out of shells, use an axe.
Then a bout of reality came along and slapped me in the face. I can’t hot wire a van. I’ve never fired a shotgun, nor do I really know how to load one. I’ve never properly used an axe. Even in my imagination I’m still as useless as a human shield.
I need maps. I need to learn how to hot wire cars and repair engines. I need to figure out how to repair a flat tire and not just change a flat tire (that one I already have covered). That was earlier today. Now, I’m glad to say, everything I could think of is printed out and stored safely in a waterproof plastic folder. In that pile are the secrets to building a fire without matches, how to build a shelter in the wilderness, how to dress wounds and broken limbs, how to eek out water from a desert, and everything else I could think of. In short: I have a guide on how to survive a zombie apocalypse. I have all of that already on my tablet, and in video form, but the electricity in this country has been unreliable.
I look at that stack of paper and think back to my other achievements, which don’t amount to much even in the real world. I can fold a fitted sheet. I can type at 95 words a minute. I am a master of general trivia. I can bullshit my way through interviews. Can I use an RF scanner? Of course! That little lie got me a job. I went home and learnt how to use one by watching Youtube. And, best of all, I can pull an all-nighter, get an A on assignments, and retain none of the information a semester later.
I’ve learned my name in Morse code. - - / • - / • - • / - • -
I’m still working on Rachel’s. • - • / • - / - • - • / • • • • / • / • - • •
I’m going to attempt to learn Cristina’s and Ediz’s tomorrow.
Ego aside, I’ve survived this long in a zombie apocalypse because there aren’t enough zombies around and because my friends have been dragging my arse towards safety. It’s time to step up my game.
You know what I forgot to print? Key phrases in other languages. Fucking hell. How did I manage to forget that one? I tried again and started shouting at the printer. The magenta cartridge was low so it wouldn’t print in black. That’s right, when one colour is gone all colours are gone. Who the hell designed this printer, Satan?
I’m going to go to Cristina and Ediz and anyone else I meet and get the top twenty most useful phrases to learn, and actually learn them. I hate printers. I may have punched that one a little too hard.
3 August
Rachel went to a store to buy new clothes, all cheap stuff, and threw out as much of her old clothes as she could afford. She said she can’t lug eighteen kilos around anymore. She picked up three new t-shirts, three sports bras, three pairs of shorts and three pairs of knickers. She’s keeping her socks and shoes. Everything else went into the trash. I guess she figures that she can wear one, wash one, have one to spare. She also threw away all of her non-walking pairs of shoes, her clubbing dress (which was expensive and only a month old), her curling iron, her make-up, a lot of her toiletries, just about everything. She replaced her stylish sunglasses with giant Jacki-O glasses because she kept squinting in the sunlight. All up, she spent a hundred euros. She’s not going to ditch her laptop. I’ve been using it to type up some of my hand-written entries so I can email them to myself. If necessary I can tear out my old pages and use them to start a fire. If absolutely necessary I can tear them out and tell the police I was never in Madrid and they have no way to verify that (unless they check with the embassy, dumbass).
The weird thing about typing up old diary entries is that I don’t remember writing them in the first place. There was so much that happened in Prague, Berlin, and Paris, so many people, so many nights of drinking. I did a bike ride through some forest in Berlin that seems impossibly distant now. Even in Madrid, Nadia went missing for a couple of days and Cristina had a shouting match with the landlady. I don’t remember that happening. I’m trying to decypher my tiny, tiny writing.
We tried to leave Seville today but it wasn’t possible. We bought tickets for a train tomorrow, heading to Santa Margarita, which Azeem assures me is towards Gibraltar. We gave some money to the Italians for food and allowing us to stay here. In the meantime, most of us are spending the day apart, taking it easy, trying not to kill each other with cabin fever.
If it wasn’t for the impending apocalypse, Seville would actually be a great place to see at a leisurely stroll. They’ve got the Plaza de España which is frequently used in movies. It’s a giant curved building / walkway that has the same kind of vibe for tourists as the Houses of Parliament have back home. There’s a Gothic cathedral here that is the largest in the world. People were lining up for miles to go in and pray, hopefully to call for an end of the walking dead.
I’ve been learning a few Spanish phrases. I decided that I have been complaining about it for so long, I should actually shut up and learn something. Rachel told me that it would take two thousand hours of practice and study to be basically fluent in Spanish, or Italian, or French, or any western European language. I don’t expect to ever be fluent in anything other than English, but after all of this time in Spain I should have something to show for it.
It was 45 degrees today. I wish I was making that up.
On a disquieting topic … Rachel’s previous roommates. We were looking over some old photos with the three French kids, Katy, Sofia, and everyone else. I hope they’re okay. We have no news of them. We still have their email addresses, phone numbers, and addresses, but they haven’t emailed any of us yet. It’s weird how I ended up with Cristina and Ediz, and how we all stuck together. It could have easily been myself, Rachel, Katy and Sofia. We may have headed in another direction or stayed in Madrid.
I wonder if Louise made it back to Ireland.
4 August
Ah, England. The white cliffs of Dover. The overcast drizzle from a perfect summer’s day. The general attitude that everything is going to be a bit shite. How I have missed you.
Too bad I’m still forced to fucking miss you because I have yet to leave stupid Spain.
The train was cancelled. There was a zombie on the track, heading towards us. I can’t believe how people are reacting to this. So what if there’s a zombie on the track? Run him the fuck over!
We were on the train, all of us, all sitting down waiting to depart. The doors were wide open and I even closed my eyes to try and sleep. I must have dozed for half an hour when I felt a tap against my leg. Rachel woke me up and said we were now pretty late. Sure enough, the driver came through each of the cabins and asked us all to leave, saying there was a problem with the track. We can line up for a refund. Yay. They won’t be able to book us on any new trains until they’ve sorted the problem and cleared the track. This is the same thing that happened in Atocha and that went to hell, with all of us running away while the soldiers freaked out from being outnumbered and overwhelmed.
Azeem is looking around for a bus. They’re operated by a different company. We’re going to lose our train money, that’s for sure. Nice little scam they have going on.
Part 2.
We’re at the airport, still in Seville. The bullshit train fiasco started at 9am. Now it’s 9pm. We’ve been sitting in the airport for six hours. Azeem called Carlos. He said we’ll be able to fly out. All we have to do is pass quarantine and head home. Only home. They won’t let anyone fly anywhere else.
What the fuck is the hold up? We’re willing to pay these bullshit fares, why can’t we just fly home already? Just fill out your paperwork and let us go on our way.
This of course means that our foursome plan of sticking together no matter what is now over. Rachel and I will leave Cristina and Ediz. There’s just no way around it. They’re going to have to do the same.
Cristina hasn’t said anything in an hour. She’s just staring off into space with a scowl. Looks like she has a headache.
Rachel keeps running her hand over her forehead.
Ediz has a Rubik’s cube.
Azeem is leaning back with his eyes closed, dozing.
Lalla uses her toilet paper more to wipe her face than for wiping her arse. She can’t have any of mine if she runs out.
It’s busier than Atocha in here. People have been camping for days. That can’t be at all smart. All it would take is one fast moving zombie to break in and it would be a feeding frenzy. This place has to be a complete safety hazard. It would take an hour to evacuate everyone if there was a fire.
The line to the bathroom is huge.
It was another 45 degree day. At least we have been inside for most of it, but there’s no air conditioning and no breeze. We’ve just been sitting in our own puddles of sweat.
There’s a fight going on at the far end of the terminal.
Part 3.
Lalla has a scratch on the outside of her wrist and she doesn’t know how she got it. Ediz insists that it’s just her nervously scratching herself, which sounds logical. Only it’s a pretty vicious scratch, not like a single swipe with your fingernails, but something that’s been building continuously for days. Lalla looks like she’s ready to crack at any moment from the pressure of the walking dead. This scratch of hers didn’t do her any favours. I think it’s time we left her behind. All she does is lock herself in the bathroom so she can cry and wail.
I dug into my pack, pulled out some disinfectant, and covered Lalla’s scratch with a large band-aid. It’s not much but at least it will stop her from poking at it again. The moment she realised that I helped her she started moaning about how she’ll be spotted by the doctors and nurses. Any wound is a fast track to the quarantine area and she’ll be locked away for days to prove that it wasn’t a zombie bite. Well, bitch, keep it covered. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.
She never even said, ‘thank you’.
5 August
They’re kicking us out of the airport.
6 August
I just had to fight tooth and nail to keep my diary. Cristina told us that to actually get anywhere we need to move as quickly and as lightly as possible. This isn’t just for our comfort, this may be a situation where, on a plane, we won’t be able to use the overhead compartments so we’ll have to carry them all the time. If someone in authority sees that our bags are too big we might be delayed. So Cristina told us to get rid of absolutely everything.
Since the four of us (we’re not counting Azeem and Lalla, since they’re trying to get to Morocco and we’re not) are in this together, we have to tell everyone what we’re keeping and why. We’ve become sharers, apparently. Secretly, I think it’s because Ediz had a quiet word with her about leaving people behind. I find that amusing because it’s something I talked to Rachel about last night. I wasn’t dumb enough to write it down anywhere and I’m glad I didn’t. Cristina wanted to know what I’ve been writing about in case we get stopped by the authorities. Maybe I’ve written something that will incriminate us. Rachel had to talk me down from a fight and we all agreed that we could keep one item of personal value. This diary is mine. Everything else belongs to the group.