She’s staring at them, according to Jorge, who’s looking through the hallway window. She’s lifting her hand to them. Ángel is filming. He wants to send it to his brother.
She just got pepper-sprayed and didn’t react. They’re going at her again and she’s not moving, just standing there with her hand out.
We’re going in for a closer look, the police will be too busy to notice.
Yep, she got pepper-sprayed. Now here comes the taser. The police are shouting at her. She’s too quiet to hear but her mouth moves once in a while, enough to say one word. She just got tasered. She’s on the ground. The police aren’t going anywhere near her. There’s a police arrest-van with its door open. They want her to go inside on her own.
She’s back on her feet. Marcos is on the phone to his family, relaying the news.
She got tasered again. She’s on the ground, moving sluggishly. The police still won’t go near her.
Shit! The police just shone a spotlight through our window, trying to stop us from looking. Marcos, annoyed, told us to go and hide and not go anywhere near the windows. We’ve lined up in the hallway, listening to the commotion outside.
There are now shouts and calls from the neighbours, lots of them. They’re pointing behind our building. The police have repositioned themselves. Another zombie is on its way.
The power just went out.
We just went onto the balcony which runs along the side of the house. We can see the zombie stumbling along. It’s a man, different from the first guy we saw. Three zombies in Getafe. The police are trying to move in against him with pepper spray. They keep jumping away like they’re working up the courage to squash a giant spider.
That was close. Some of the spray just hit the side of our balcony. I can smell and taste it in the air. Makes me gasp. Pleh.
After who knows how many days, they still haven’t found a way to take people into custody without touching them. They need a noose on a pole like the ones they use on deranged dogs.
They’re backing up one of the arrest-vehicles towards the male zombie. They’re trying to get him to climb into the arrest chamber.
He just walked by. The police car is rolling forward, keeping it next to him.
Huh, one of the police officers out the front actually has a rope with him. He’s swinging it around, trying to get the woman.
Fuck, the police spot light just got me. I’m sure when this is all done they’re going to come upstairs and start taking us away as well.
Marcos just told us to get our bags and get ready to leave, possibly up to the roof and along the neighbours’. There’s no way off the roof. We’re three storeys off the ground up there and there’s nowhere to hide.
I’m on the roof now, looking down on the mess. The two zombies are talking at the same time. “Ven,” and “Surrender.” It’s the same voice. Not just the same accent, but the exact same voice, as though one guy from Cuba (or wherever he’s from) is talking through the mouths of that woman and that man at the same time.
Talking zombies saying the same thing the same way.
Marcos is talking to one of the neighbours up here. She’s an older lady and she’s waving us over. We can hide in her house for a while. Marcos is saying we should leave when the police are gone. We don’t know where to go. He’s kicking us out.
Part 7.
The older lady was nice. She allowed us to stay until 9 o’clock. That’s when the shops in Getafe started opening up. The lines were huge. It’s obvious we’re not Spanish and they’re treating us with suspicion, especially since most of us have backpacks with us and we stick out like you wouldn’t believe. We’re in a line now, waiting for food. The electricity came back on an hour ago.
The police lassoed the zombies and forced them into the back of the arrest-van. The other officers then came and looked around the neighbouring houses, including Marcos’. Marcos said that one of the neighbours had called the police on us, saying that we weren’t Spanish and that we were in Atocha. I don’t know how they knew we were in Atocha, maybe they just lied and got a lucky guess.
There’s six of us now. Myself, Rachel, Cristina, Ediz, Azeem, and Lalla. None of us are happy about Lalla but Azeem is trying to comfort her in Arabic. People have been walking by us saying we shouldn’t be here. Dickheads.
Part 8.
We were just rejected from the shops. It’s for Spanish people only, they say. Cristina tried her best but her accent is still Italian. She then started swearing at the manager and staff telling them that they were low-life racist scumbags. I swore as well, in English. The only reason I’m not more pissed off is because there was a couple behind us in the line who heard what happened and bought us the food we wanted with our money. They were decent, good people. We thanked them and they apologised for the assholes working here.
We waited in line for an hour and a half and it was only when we got through the door that we were told to piss off. They could have saved us some time and told us straight away, but no. I hope they fucking die and beg for help and no one comes to help them.
We went to another shop for another top up. We have food, mostly granola bars, carrots, and bottles of water. I bought a large box of cereal because it’s one of the only things still there. It’s going to be as dry as hell but I hope it will be filling and not too sugary. Most of the shops didn’t even open. We saw a delivery truck an hour ago but it’s the only one working. It’ll take a few more days before everything picks itself up again.
So now what? We’re sitting around, eating, with no idea what to do. Azeem says he has another friend who might still be here somewhere else in Getafe. Azeem has been our life-line and it sucks that I’m the only one who can’t speak to him. Great little tag-along I am.
Jesus, Part 9 already?
Anyway. We’re in a van! Azeem to the rescue! He bumped into his friend on the street, Carlos. Carlos is from Seville, south of Madrid. Carlos’ dad drove all night to come and get his son since Carlos was trapped up here with no transport getting in or out of Getafe, so his dad drove up to bring him home. He was stopped at three check-points and had to wait two hours at one of them just to verify his story. We followed Carlos back to his place and met his dad, who is a little wary of driving another six people back, but really he brought the van so Carlos’ roommates could leave as well. The roommates all left a couple of days ago so there’s enough space for us and we are on the road! Carlos junior convinced Carlos senior to offer the six of us a spare room in his house. How long for? No idea. We’ll have to figure out what to do when we get there.
We passed the first check point without getting stopped. We are now well and truly out of Madrid! Heading for Seville! Carlos senior says that things are a little more sane in Seville and no one has seen a single ‘zombie’. He doesn’t believe the story. The rest of us seem to flip from being 100% convinced to undecided. Either way there is definitely something creepy about the way those two people / creatures spoke with the same voice. Carlos didn’t see any of the action from last night. Azeem has filled him in on the details.
Carlos senior has told us that the French/Spanish border is blocked, completely blocked, no one allowed to go in or out unless they are medical staff or recognised officials. That’s made Ediz and Cristina a little uncomfortable. There’s now no direct road back to Turkey or Italy. I wouldn’t even consider going to Turkey by road, it’s too far. The train from Paris to Nice was bad enough, taking four hours. Paris to Barcelona was supposed to take eight hours but we were caught out with a train strike and had to take a rental car from Nice to Barcelona. Ediz would have to go from one extreme end of the continent to the other.
Cristina and Rachel have fallen asleep in the back of the van.
We’re coming up to our second traffic jam now. The first one lasted half an hour. Carlos senior has the radio on but there’s nothing about the traffic. senior keeps saying, “Vamos, vamos,” while staring at the radio. We’re creeping along at a snail’s pace. There’s no where for me to rest my arms.
At best this would be a five hour drive.
Now we know why the traffic is so slow. There is an accident up ahead. I don’t think it’s serious, just a few cars shunted into each other, but it’s knocked out one of the lanes. Stupid drivers. You would think that if you’re trying to get to safety you might actually value your life enough not to drive like an idiot.
Rachel woke up, looked around, and went back to sleep again. Sounds like a good idea.
Okay, this is getting stupid. We’ve moved maybe a mile in the last half hour. I see a few motorbikes zipping past (which wakes us up) and the drivers here seem to have a hard-on for honking their horns. What the hell is up with that? If you’re stuck behind a mile of traffic that isn’t moving, honking your horn isn’t going to do anything. Nothing at all. Nada. And yet they still do it, and it’s not just one driver, it seems to be at least half of them. Yes, I understand you drivers are frustrated and want to spread the misery by irritating everyone around you, but this is a violence begets violence thing. The more you do to other people the more they do to you. With all of this noise it’s impossible to sleep.
A dog just ran along in between all of the cars. It earned a smile from a couple of us, but not from Lalla.
I bet that dog ends up showing more compassion and camaraderie than most of the people blazing their horns and shouting at everyone else stuck in traffic. I bet most people would prefer to be kept company by an unknown dog than an unknown person. At least with a dog you know it won’t try to cheat you out of money or food.
Cristina is saying she misses her dog.
I want Basil to be okay. I’ve missed him more than I’ve missed some of my friends. At least with them I know I’ll see them again regardless of how bad this gets. Even if they’re in some camp on the outskirts of London trying to rebuild civilisation, I’ll see them again. But Basil is an escape artist extraordinaire. If Clint is forced to leave the flat and can’t find him in time then Basil will be on his own. He might be locked inside or left out to fend for himself. If Clint is smart about it he’ll leave a window open so Basil can still climb in and out. But how much foresight will Clint have with my fucking cat? Even after a year he still has to ask me when bin day is.
Lalla just said she’s allergic to dogs. Bravo, Lalla. Way to go. Maybe if Cristina has to choose between saving a dog’s life and saving yours, we’ll see who wins out.
I had a dream the other night about Alana. She told me she loved me, like she was telling me for the first time. It brought along a surge of ‘I love you too’ that I haven’t been able to shake. Maybe staring out of this window will help me forget about her.
Fuck! A guy got flattened on the road just in front of us. I wasn’t even looking at anything in particular. I heard a motorbike drive past my window. A guy got out of the driver’s seat to see what was going on up ahead and the bike hit him. The nearby drivers and passengers are all out of their cars, looking over the two guys. Some of the passengers have their hands over their mouths in shock. Others are looking away.
Ediz is telling us not to look.
Carlos senior just turned off the engine. We won’t be moving for a while.
There’s no way to get an ambulance in through all of this. They’ll have to come along the other side of the motorway and walk through the traffic.
According to the radio, the Atocha riots have spread to the rest of Madrid. Forty people are now dead, having been trampled or shot. People are burning cars and attacking the police, raiding shops and supermarkets.
It’s no longer a traffic jam, it’s a road block. We’re twenty kilometres to Cordoba, which is about eighty kilometres from Seville. The army is checking every car. We’re all feeling pretty edgy here. Rachel just asked if we should leave the van and go on foot, over the motorway and away from the cars. No one knows. Are they looking for foreigners or for zombies? I hope their priorities are now looking for zombies.
Rachel and I have been talking about getting our asses to Gibraltar. It’s still a British colony and since we’re both British citizens they should let us in. Azeem and Lalla want to head in that direction as well. They’re hoping to get a boat to Morocco. Cristina and Ediz have been rather quiet about what they should try and do.
It’s as hot as an oven in the van and we’re all dripping sweat onto each other. The radio is the only thing keeping us company and everyone is fidgeting in the heat, fighting a losing battle against sweat rash, and trying to get away from the sun as it creeps in through the windows. No one wants to risk getting sunburned.
Lalla just told us she needs a wee. We don’t know how long we’re going to be here for. We’ve seen lots of people getting out of their cars and pissing on the motorway, but Lalla sounds terrified even thinking about doing that in public.
Cristina sighed and just agreed to help Lalla and keep her company. We checked all around the van to make sure no one was about to run them over. Lalla got out and squatted at the front of the van. Cristina stood watch while a couple of guys in a car next to us gawked, laughed, and honked their horn. Cristina didn’t even bother to glare at them. I guess Lalla is having trouble with public exhibition.
It’s making me want to piss as well.
Aside from that, we’ve been eating canned pineapple slices.
It’s getting dark. That’s when the bad shit seems to happen. That’s when the dead catch up to us. How are we going to know where to run to during a traffic jam? If these things are sprinters and we’re pinned here on a motorway then they’re going to catch us with no problem. Even if we stay inside the van they’ll tip it on its side, smash the windows open, and rip our arms off.
We haven’t turned on the engine in two hours.