No one’s talking to me. At least they didn’t kick me out of the group. I introduced myself to the others.
I broke down before everyone else did. They’ve all gone through exactly the same shit as me and I was the first to crack. I thought I was better than this. I thought I would have to go chasing after someone to convince them to stay, reminding them that wandering off is an epically bad idea.
And you know what? No one came after me. That was one hell of a sobering reality.
I have now seen my first zombie. Dead-eyed and covered in blood. How the hell did he even rise that quickly? It took days for the previous lot to stagger around. This guy was down for a few minutes before getting up again.
Maybe he was able to get away with some open wounds and a concussion. He could have just followed us looking for help. If that’s true then we just ran away from a guy who was dying. I hope I never learn his name. I won’t be able to get it out of my mind.
Things got worse when we saw him. We heard a helicopter approaching. The spotlight stayed on the injured/dead guy while the rest of us got the hell out of there. For a while I thought I was following Ediz and it turned out that I was following someone else. Ediz, Rachel, and Cristina had run off the other way. Azeem, the Moroccan, was able to pull us all back together. The helicopter found us. We couldn’t just hide, we had to keep moving. After a few seconds the pilot changed his mind from following the injured/dead guy and started following us. We kept running and the spotlight kept following. We ran for what felt like an hour until we were in this remote area near a train line heading into a tunnel. We hurried over the hill, bypassing the fence for the train, and ran into the tunnel to stop the helicopter from following us.
You know what I remember from
28 Days Later
? Don’t ever go into a tunnel. What did we do? Hide in a tunnel.
We waited to see what the helicopter would do. The tunnel was only a hundred metres long but there was no light on either end to show us what lay beyond. When we got out Azeem had to take us in a different direction. He wanted us to keep going south. He kept saying the name of some place, ‘tah-fay’, or something like that.
We had to duck, keep our heads down and follow a different train line as far south as we could. Soon after I had my tantrum and left the group.
Azeem now says that we are only an hour away from getting to his friends. None of us know where we’re going or if these friends will even be there. If they are there, will they be happy to see eight complete strangers and Azeem arrive on their doorstep, all looking for food and a place to sleep?
I figured out another reason why I have a splitting headache. Caffeine. I’m used to tea, coffee, coke, chocolate. Anything with a caffeine fix and I’m all over it. That might explain why I sleep erratic hours and never get enough shut-eye. I’ve been without it for at least a day now. The withdrawal symptoms are killing me. I can now add a headache to my list of grievances. Sleep deprivation, dehydration, starvation, and now running-for-your-life-ation.
Cristina says we’re heading to Getafe. It’s just a suburb, nothing special. There’s a university nearby but that’s all she knows about it.
Azeem says his friends live ten or fifteen minutes from the train line. With any luck they’re used to having lots of people crash at their place, but it’s a stretch to imagine that they will welcome us with open arms.
Let’s hope we get there before whatever is following us catches up.
Part 5.
We made it. I don’t want to get these people into trouble so I will be as vague as possible. I mean, they are housing potential fugitives, refugees, or whatever the hell we are. They asked us to keep quiet and not to tell anyone that they helped us. I will agree to that. I won’t even be fully honest here because I’m sure if I’m caught someone will go through my diary and if they are so inclined they may want to crack down on the Spanish citizens who helped the foreigners. I’ve been told that old memories run deep, beyond the generations, and that Franco seriously fucked up the psyche of his country when it was a fascist dictatorship not too long ago.
I will say this, though; these three students are welcome at my place in London any time, for any reason. They saved my life today.
There is M, not from the south.
There is J, not from the north east.
There is A, not from the south either.
They’re all Spanish guys from different cities speaking with the Spanish lisp. They know Azeem from a few parties that happened to be packed with Italians. Cristina perked up when she heard this and, small world, Cristina knows some of those Italians. They come from Milan and went to the same university as Cristina. She is now desperate to know if they are lost in Madrid, hunted by zombies and soldiers.
M, J, and A offered us water and sandwiches. They don’t have a lot of food available. There are some small shops nearby that have been ignoring the bans and curfews and have been selling their perishables. M, J, and A stocked up as much as they could, but we run the risk of eating all their food. One thing they have is a tonne of oranges, and I really do mean … well, not a metric tonne, but they have four crates of oranges. They grow them on the roof. At least we won’t die of vitamin-C deficiency.
There are five bedrooms here. The house is weirdly designed. It’s three storeys. On the ground floor is nothing but the staircase and the garage, which is supposed to be very large and is only accessed by the landlords, not by these guys. On the next floor is the lounge with large windows, a bedroom for a fourth student, a girl, M, not from above Portugal (she’s gone back home). There’s also the main bathroom and the kitchen which is four times bigger than the one in Rachel’s place which was used to feed twelve people. This place is supposed to feed four or five. Upstairs again are four bedrooms and a small bathroom.
I am currently upstairs in bedroom two. It’s only as big as a double bed. Literally. Not a double bed with space to walk around the edges, but a double bed pressed up against three of the walls. God knows how you would change the linen, your knuckles would scrape against three of the walls.
Rachel is in here with me. We pulled the single mattress off the bed and she’s sleeping on that, on the floor, while I’m sitting here on the hard surface of the bed base wishing I could fall asleep.
Cristina and another girl who came with us are in Girl M’s bedroom downstairs. Ediz, Azeem, and the others are asleep in the lounge.
Holy shit was it a long walk. Azeem assured us he wasn’t lost, but when you’re stumbling through a heavy industrial area for two hours with nothing but aircraft-hanger warehouses in every direction you kinda wonder if your guide actually knows where he’s going. Ediz said we reached the end of one train line and were about to start another that had no connecting track to Madrid at all.
Then we hit upon the outskirts of Getafe. At that point Azeem really was lost and admitted as much. With all of the twisting streets and not a single straight road it took him ten minutes for him to confess and us another hour to stumble upon a metro station. The train wasn’t running but at least from there we had a point of reference. Before that we had nothing, we were just aimlessly walking around looking for one unremarkable house in front of a tiny park in a town devoid of all street signs and maps.
I wonder if that’s how the zombies’ vision would be like. Clouded over, dulled, where it could be the brightest of days and yet everything looks dark and overcast through your zombie eyes. You can’t recognise any of the street signs anymore like they’re writing might as well be in some hieroglyphic that your brain can’t process. You can’t hear anyone until they scream when they see you. All you have keeping you company is the tiniest of voices urging you forward, to find food, to find someone who can keep you alive for just a little longer.
The last half hour of walking was murder. We had to follow the main road from one metro stop to another until we reached the Alonso-something station. At that point Azeem assured us we were ten minutes away. You can tell from the look on everyone’s faces that ‘just ten more minutes’ better be exactly ten minutes and no more, because if it ends up being an hour and you don’t actually know where you’re going then we’ll … glare at you until you apologise. But he was right. Ten minutes.
It was strange meeting the housemates. Azeem did all of the talking and asked if we could come in for a minute. We all put on our best presentation faces for a good first impression. All of the students here are very nice, very warm and friendly, and understand that we are in a shitty situation. However bad they had it, we’ve had it worse. It’s good to see that kind of perspective. It’s good for me as well to know that not everyone is as miserable as I’ve been.
We came in, told them our situation and asked if we could spend a few hours here to sleep, then we’ll go. I think it was Guy M who spoke to Azeem. He initially said yes, but he had to check with J and A. A was indifferent. He is clearly the sort of guy who isn’t surprised to find nine people crashing at his place because of a zombie uprising. J didn’t care either. He was supposed to head back home the other day but of course the transport has shut down and he’s stuck here. It’s his last semester so he won’t be coming back to the house. He just hopes the landlady won’t come along to collect an extra month’s rent. He says he’ll tell her to piss off if she tries it. He was very eager to talk to myself and Rachel. He was an exchange student and had spent some time in London. He wanted to practice his English (which is pretty good) and wanted to know if we were from the same area that he lived in. Not quite. He lived in the centre of the city and took advantage of the night life. He’s probably seen more of Downing Street and Big Ben than I have. Isn’t it weird how that works? The tourists often know more about your home town than you do. At least, they know the tour book version of your town better than you. I, on the other hand, know the best chicken and chips place is within walking distance of my flat.
We asked if there was any news. There’s some on the local radio but it isn’t good. No flights, no boats, no one is leaving Spain.
Azeem told the housemates about what we saw yesterday in Atocha. It was weird hearing the events in another language and still following where he was up to in the story. It’s also weird hearing it from someone who was just twenty metres away from us when it was happening. I must have looked over to Azeem a hundred times in Atocha and I don’t remember him being there. There were just too many faces. Or, more likely, he had his back to me the whole time. Someone that close to me would later save my life. He could have just as easily trampled me if I had been in his way.
The three students heard bits of the story before we even arrived. They knew some people had died in Atocha while trying to push their way onto the trains. When we told them about the zombie on the train tracks they lost all faith in the government reporting. Someone shot someone or something and then no one was willing to go near it.
They couldn’t believe we walked from Atocha to Getafe. It’s fucking far. And they’re right! It took five hours of solid walking. But what else were we going to do? We had just escaped a human stampede, were being followed by at least one zombie, had to hide from the helicopters, and we were always on the verge of sprinting for our lives. All the while we were weighed down by big ass backpacks.
There’s still no electricity so we can’t use the washing machine. We’ve all bundled our clothes into a big plastic tub on the balcony. While one person was manning that the rest of us jumped in the shower (one at a time, of course). Nine people waiting in line for the shower is not easy, but we made it. I was last. Rachel was already asleep on the mattress when I got here. It’s almost 9am. I’m using my backpack as an oversized pillow. The base of the bed is like lying on a wooden board. Still, we’re safe here, and feeling safe after the last couple of days is one hell of an improvement.
I’m pretty sure Rachel had been crying up here while I was downstairs. I see myself getting angry over the slightest of things, pissed off when one of my shoe laces comes undone when I’m walking, pissed off whenever I have to bend over with my backpack, pissed off thinking about all the blisters that are building up. I couldn’t even relax in the shower. A one minute shower is not ideal. Add to that all of my clothes are being washed and mixed up with Cristina’s, Rachel’s, and Ediz’s and we had to sort through all of them. Cristina snapped at me when I picked up her underwear. It wasn’t my fault. She grabbed the bundle of clothes out of the washing tub and something fell. It turned out to be a pair of her knickers and I picked them up off the ground. She grabbed them out of my hand and said something in Italian which couldn’t have been pleasant. I remember her saying ‘cazzo’. My Italian is nearly non-existent but I know when someone is swearing at me. Maybe she’s still pissed off that I walked off and then had the nerve to come grovelling back.
I should apologise when I see her next. I hope I can sleep. Second-wind wakefulness has kicked in and I’m still afraid that we’ll have to grab our stuff and run like hell in a moment’s notice. I have no idea where we could even run to. We’d have to out run the police, military, and the zombies with no real idea of where we are or where we’re going. I have the entirety of wikipedia on a flash drive and yet I don’t have a single map printed for any city that isn’t Madrid.
Please just let me sleep.
That didn’t last long. Rachel gasped and sat up. Much to our surprise Cristina was asleep next to her. I had no idea she even came in. When Rachel woke up it woke me up. She said, “Was that you?”
I thought I had farted or snored or something, but no. She just had a creepy dream and the stress got to her. I reminded her that there are twelve people in the house so she’s going to hear something. Cristina started to stir. She was supposed to be in Girl M’s room with the pint-sized Moroccan girl, but the Moroccan spent the whole time crying and Cristina had enough and left.