I’ve been here now for two weeks and was only expecting to stay for five days or so. I really owe Rachel a big favour for putting up with me. She’s dying for some chocolate but there’s nothing in the house. She wants an emergency care package flown in.
I’ve done a quick stocktake of my supplies. 7 boxers, 7 pairs of socks, 7 t-shirts, 1 good shirt, 2 hoodies, 4 pairs of shorts, 2 pairs of jeans, 1 pair of black cargo pants, 1 bum bag, 1 belt wallet, 2 pairs of shoes, shaving kit, after-sun skin-care kit, moisturiser, basic walking around first-aid kit (mostly band-aids, vaseline, blister needle, aspirin), 1 bottle of water, toilet paper, 3 packs of tissues, 5 plastic bags, 1 hat, wallet, watch, sunglasses, phone, phone charger, tablet, mp3 player, a deck of cards, 3 pens, sudoku book, diary.
Things I need to get: a can opener, matches and fire lighters, a proper first-aid kit.
There’s a quiet game of cards going on in the lounge. People are smoking pot. Rachel is watching and getting passively stoned. She’s a giggler, it seems.
Sofia was a little glass-half-full a while ago. She wrote up thirteen sheets of paper with her contact details and emergency numbers. We’ve all filled them out, which took forever, so now we each have everyone’s name and a couple of phone numbers and addresses. We’ve all accepted friend requests but this gives us another way to stay in contact with no Internet.
Finally, after two weeks, I have the names of the three French kids: Camille, Luke, and Robert. I can figure out who Camille is but I have no idea which of the guys is which.
Tomorrow it’s vital we get to the shops.
28 July
Well shit. This is extremely very not good. Yesterday I didn’t write anything for one simple reason: I was too depressed. We went to the shops and they were closed. So we went to the other shops and they were closed. We walked around for three hours trying to find somewhere that was open and we managed to find a small fruit and vegetable place that was selling the last of their food. The guy assured us it would all be gone by the evening. Rachel and I were able to get two single kilo packs of pasta shells and a five kilo pack of rice (plus fruit and vegetables). The rice was a bitch to carry.
On our way back to the apartment we saw something disconcerting: a mob of people, all walking down the street with suitcases, all directed by the military. People are being evacuated. I couldn’t see the front of the crowd nor the rear, but I did see a lot of wheeled tanks. Rachel and I kept out of sight and remained quiet but the feeling was loud and clear: don’t let the guys with guns take us away. We didn’t have our backpacks so we’d be fucked if we had to survive without them. Of course, at that point all of our shopping became incredibly heavy and the bags were cutting into our fingers. It took an hour of detours just to get back home.
We saw a couple of dead rats on the street. That didn’t fill us with much joy either. We’ve each checked ourselves over for any red spots. We’re covered in them. I’m hoping it’s just a heat rash and not actual flea bites.
Everyone in the apartment sat around and got stoned. There wasn’t much else to do with no TV or Internet. It’s the end of the world and we’re getting stoned. Wheee. I soon fell asleep.
There were more gun battles in the evening, starting at 9pm. There was a helicopter flying nearby with a loud speaker and a spotlight repeatedly telling the person to stop moving and lie on the ground. After five minutes there were a number of gun shots.
So: zombies appear to have arrived in Madrid. I can’t confirm anything with my own two eyes but that seems to be what’s happened.
What good are these stupid apps if there is no Internet?
Last night we came up with a list of rules and good ideas for surviving a zombie apocalypse. It’s a shame we were still stoned because a lot of them were quite funny.
1) Always travel with someone else, even to the bathroom. (We haven’t started doing that one yet.)
2) If you’re forced to travel on foot (we’re assuming that cars and motorbikes can’t be used during the apocalypse), use a mountain bike as you can probably out-pedal something that’s on foot.
3) If someone gives you a machete to use on a zombie, give the machete back and tell them you’re not getting anywhere near that thing.
We ended up with a list of twenty things, but the other seventeen were misspelled ramblings in different languages.
Today we saw more herds of people being evacuated.
Rachel and I have enough rice and pasta to last us for about a month. It’ll be boring as all hell but hopefully it will be enough to keep us alive.
I can’t stop thinking about Alana. God knows I’ve tried but for the last two months she’s largely been the only thing on my mind. Europe has been a nice distraction but whenever I see a couple walking hand in hand I think of her. When I see a waif with long brown hair, a heart-melting smile and clumsy glasses, I think of her. I’m been flipping between a giant FUCK YOU to feeling directionless since we had the talk. I thought I knew what I was in for. The conversation went well, I felt good afterwards, I was back on the market. Clint offered me a beer and Basil fell asleep on my lap, though I’m sure he would have done that anyway. Then the next day there was an absence of text messages and it started to sink in. Then the next day, still no messages, like she had pushed me off into the discard pile. Then came a hell of a lot of second guessing, looking back over our time together, and wondering what everyone picked up on about us that I was oblivious to. I hate her for having me wrapped around her little finger like that and yet I love that someone was able to get that close to me and make me feel so alive.
I still never want to see her again. I just can’t help but think that it took me a year and a half to get over Vicky and then another year and a half before anyone showed me even the slightest bit of interest. I don’t think I can spend another three years going through that again.
29 July
It’s not everyday I get to use the word ‘plume’, but there’s a plume of smoke rising in the next suburb. There are two police helicopters hovering over the area, keeping a safe distance from whatever is happening down below. The police lights are bouncing off all of the buildings. We went to the roof to see what was happening. We couldn’t see much, but there was a lot of shouting, breaking glass and scraping metal, like a car was rolled onto its side and then pushed around. It’s coming from the area where people were being evacuated, so I’m guessing there’s a riot going on just one or two hundred metres away from us. Even the prostitutes on our doorstep are in hiding. We may have to barricade ourselves inside the apartment in case the riot spreads.
Part 2.
Yep, there’s a riot going on. It’s utter chaos in the suburb north of us. There’s a lot of cars and buses on fire. People are looting and grabbing what they can. How the fuck are we supposed to buy food if people are looting the shops we’re going to? Shop owners will be too afraid to open their stores if the people next to them were robbed. It’s just not worth it for them to take the risk. So those asshole thieves are going to turn the rest of us into thieves because no one is going to open their shop and risk being killed as no one has the money to buy anything. Just a handful of assholes are going to force a lot of misery and suffering onto hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people. But of course they would because they can only think of themselves and are incapable of expressing their anger in anything that isn’t a violent outburst.
30 July
We’ve been evacuated. I didn’t think our situation was all that serious until now, but … fuck, we’re in trouble. I’m at the Atocha train station with all of the housemates. There are soldiers everywhere, all wearing gas masks like they’re expecting to blast us with an anti-zombie chemical attack. I’ve been through Heathrow and wandered past Downing Street enough times to feel comfortable enough seeing a dozen steely eyed officers sporting assault rifles, but this blows everything out of the water. I would see four policemen at any one time in Heathrow. Here there are forty soldiers in sight and many more on the platforms. There’s a row of small white tents just behind the ticket turnstiles. You walk through and get sprayed with disinfectant. Then you’re given a tissue to wipe your face clean. Then you can move to one of the platforms.
I’ve packed my sixteen kilos. Add to that my five kilos of rice (and a few liberated items from the apartment) and my backpack feels like it’s trying to murder me. Everyone from the apartment is here, sitting together. There are people crying nearby. No one is telling us what’s happening except that we’re getting out of Madrid. But where to? No idea. Nor do they care. Us non-Spanish-citizens are obvious threats to the Spanish way of life so all that matters is that we are kicked out of their capital city as quickly as possible. There are four million people in Madrid, there’s no way everyone can be evacuated all at once. Where are we supposed to go? At least if they quarantined us in the apartment we could at least feed ourselves and live in something similar to comfort. But nooooo. We had to leave a relatively relaxed environment and be forced into a human pressure cooker.
There aren’t even any newspapers. I guess when the TV, phones, and Internet go down the reporters really have no way to find out what’s happening in the world.
I was here two weeks ago when I met Rachel. She took me to see the turtles in the station. The turtles have now been relocated, as the whole area has been sprayed with disinfectant and everything smells like vomit.
I guess the fight Cristina had with the landlady was for nothing. I also guess that infected people managed to cross the border before everything was sealed up. It might’ve taken them a week of being sick before they all died. We still don’t know who was being shot at the other night. They’re not telling us anything.
Rachel is bored stupid and is reading some weird sci-fi book. Louise is on the other side of me. I gave her my sudoku book to help her pass the time but she’s done six of the puzzles now and I want it back. Michael is listening to a few mp3s and Derek is hoping his phone doesn’t run out of battery.
It was weird how we were evacuated this morning. We heard a couple of authorative bangs on the doors at ten. There was a soldier at ours and he realised that most of us didn’t speak fluent Spanish. He said: “You all must go. One hour. Downstairs. Everyone must leave.”
Cristina went out to the neighbours and got a lengthier answer. Yep, we’re all leaving, the whole building is leaving, the whole street is leaving, we’re all going to Atocha. Pack what you can carry and let’s go. I grabbed a small pot with a lid from the kitchen. It belonged to the landlady. I consulted with Rachel first. She said to take whatever I wanted. I also took a wooden spoon, some steak knives, and plastic tubs.
So we walked. Everyone trundled along with 15+ kilos on their backs or carrying 20+ in wheelie suitcases. It took an hour under the blistering sun but here we are. Michael was hobbling the whole way. My thighs are killing me. I’ve been lethargic for two weeks. Hell, for the last week I’ve barely left the apartment. I can feel the burn around my neck from the sun. Louise is already in trouble from the sun. Rachel had the sense to walk with a big hat but her arms having taken damage already.
They guided us in wheeled tanks and trucks. Perhaps the soldiers were concerned that several thousand angry evictees could easily overpower a few guys on foot with rifles. We saw plenty of soldiers on rooftops. What we didn’t see were the snipers. I’ve been assured that they were there.
It was a pain in the ass of a walk. The crowd felt like Times Square at New Year’s. Now that we’re in Atocha, everyone is sitting around, waiting to get doused by the chemicals. Some have been leaving by bus, some by train. I hope we get to go by train. The buses suck. There’s nowhere to rest your elbow if you have a window seat and your knees bang into the seat in front. There’s more room on a train.
Someone needs to tell us what the fuck is going on.
One of the soldiers just walked by as his radio went off. There was a gun shot in the distance. High calibre with some punch to it. Cristina heard the message but didn’t quite catch what was said. Judging by the change in attitude in the soldiers, who now look like they’re on high alert, it doesn’t take much to figure out what’s happening outside.
How the hell did a zombie get this close?
Rachel just leaned over. She’s done with the book. She’s about two thirds into it and is giving up. She did say something interesting, though. So far we don’t know why we’re leaving Madrid. We all think it’s zombies or a great undead uprising but none of us know for sure. This could be just a mass deportation of unfavourables. Maybe there’s been a coup. It’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility. The lack of Internet and phones would also say that a coup is likely - it stops any kind of resistance from mounting.
After that bout of thinking, Rachel’s now listening to some music with her headphones in.
I don’t even dare use my tablet in case they confiscate it. There’s a camera built in. Much safer to write long hand in a notebook.
People in uniforms are moving past us with these large scanners, checking our body temperature. No one’s resisting. Nor would you want to, not when someone (dead or alive) was just shot nearby with what must have been a sniper rifle.
Part 2.
We’ve been sitting around for six hours now with nothing to do and no where to go. We’re just here, on the tiled floor, huddled in the middle of the Atocha walkway, protecting our bags. The station is packed to the point where we’re overflowing. There’s a gentle din of news going around. The soldiers have moved away. They were getting asked all sorts of questions and they were either saying, “I don’t know,” or, “I’m not allowed to say anything.”
One thing that did catch their attention was finding a zombie walking along the train tracks. It’s amazing how one little dead guy has now immobilised not just an entire station, but hundreds of soldiers and thousands of travellers. And there he was, one zombie wandering along the train tracks. Now the trains aren’t going anywhere. They shot him four hours ago and still there are no trains moving. So they’re either keeping us here overnight (please no) or no one is willing to get close enough to the zombie to move him out of the way. Why can’t they just drive over him?