We are now utterly dependant on Ediz. He can speak to these people. They were asking him about Morocco, he was asking them about Algeria. There’s a name for the warlord who has taken over the country – Louis Boyer. Now, I know that France used to control Algeria, but the common names around here are Ahmed, Abdel, Aziz, Ahlam … okay, a lot of names starting with ‘A’, but they definitely have an Arabic ring to them. Louis Boyer is not from Algeria. He’s Haitian. Which might go some way in explaining why the US has sent an aircraft carrier to kill him.
Boyer spent a few years living and working in northern Africa. The majority of his time was in Algeria. The locals are surprised that a foreigner has managed to come in and conquer their country in two months. We’ve heard a dozen different stories and none seem to really align with common sense, but as of today this is what everyone seems to agree on:
There are pro-Boyer rebels and anti-Boyer rebels. The anti-Boyer rebels shoot zombies. The pro-Boyer rebels do not. Boyer arrived in Algeria, from Haiti, on the 10th of July, two days before I got to Madrid. His previous work here was as a businessman, one of the senior kind of businessmen who signs contracts and makes shit happen. A future CEO, basically. The consensus from the locals, who have heard about him for years, was that he was an arrogant arsehole, a bully, a briber, an exploiter, and he would’ve walked over the corpse of his mother if it could help make him some money. He was here for five years and made a name for himself in the press. Then he left. Now he’s back and he’s overthrown the government. He’s trying to seize the rest of the country as well. Wonderful.
We asked about getting a boat but the navy won’t be happy to see us. What’s left of the military has gone into a state of panicked emergency. If they see a little dingy zipping along the coastline they will open fire. So we asked about getting a car, truck or bus to drive to Tunisia. We got to see a lot of shaking heads, especially since we don’t have the money to do any of these magical things we dream about. Ediz told us that these people are now trying to head to Mali and we might want to consider joining them. I asked how far away that is. It’s two thousand kilometres south, into the heart of Africa. I asked that we not consider that as an actual possibility. Ediz said we might not have a choice.
I’ll point out that it’s two thousand kilometres to the
border
of Mali. From there it’s still another thousand kilometres to get to a city that can help us. From there we would have to cross through Burkina Faso or the Ivory Coast and hope that Ghana will take us in. Essentially we would have to travel through that whole fat belly part of Africa that sticks out into the Atlantic. It’s two thousand eight hundred miles.
I didn’t want to know how far away that actually was. Ediz knows. Now I know. I didn’t want to know but now I do. It’s the same distance from London to the Iranian border.
At this rate, we’re not leaving Africa. We can’t risk going any farther into Algeria because it’s a warlord’s paradise. We certainly can’t go along the coast because there are rebel fighters, zombies, two navies, and panicked militants who are trying to kill each other. What chance do we have of surviving that? None.
Boyer spends a lot of time on TV, mocking the West, saying ‘we’ (meaning himself and his loyal followers) will take back this world and restore power to its rightful owner. He says the West will pay for their attacks on Haiti.
We’ve been able to scrounge together some food but we’ll be out in a day. Cristina is adamant about getting to Italy. At least there she can help us. But we’re still a thousand miles away from Sicily and our options of getting there are quickly becoming exhausted.
11 September
I arrived into Madrid with a thirty four inch waist. I’m now down to twenty eight.
Some of Rachel’s underwear is missing after the police station. I asked her what happened. She and Cristina were held in different rooms for hours. Rachel spent most of her time crying. Cristina still won’t talk about it. She just says that nothing happened and she’s fine.
We’re in a convoy of cars. Rachel and I are together. Cristina and Ediz are in a different car. We’re heading south. We were able to convince some people to let us join them. One of the guys knows of a river south of here. There’s fish in there. We can eat the fish and stay at the river for as long as necessary. They have a water filter here so we can drink it. It will only take another hour to get there, assuming they’re not all driving into the desert to kill us foreigners, but I’m not getting that vibe from them. We were able to tell them about Morocco and Spain and that no one should be trying to go there. We’ve been trading information for the last couple of hours in very broken languages with a lot of gesturing about. Ediz told me they didn’t leave because of the zombies, they left because of Boyer.
Part 2.
The river turned out to be a mark of genius. Two of the guys had nets and we each had a fish to ourselves. I usually don’t like fish but I devoured this one quickly. It only took a few minutes on the fire and it was one of the most satisfying meals I’ve ever had.
There are two Omar’s here, an Akim, Ali, Aziz, and I can’t remember the other names. Forgive me. I will learn them all in time. I introduced myself to everyone and thanked them all. I made an effort to be more social, especially since someone caught me a fish and let me use their water filter so I could drink. Oh, and someone also drove me here and I have no way to pay for their petrol. I did my best to smile and I actually sang a few songs. Everyone knows the Star Wars theme and I tried to re-enact that movie in two minutes. Everything was fine until I started to pew pew lasers with a resounding boom at the end. Only then did I remember that everyone here is escaping a civil war.
It’s getting cold. It might be the first cool night I’ve had since leaving Paris.
There are seventeen of us sitting around five cars. I’m here with people who were born in Algeria, have never left the country, and it took a madman from Haiti to change all of that. Want to know something that’s troubling these people? When the zombies speak as a single voice it isn’t Boyer’s. It belongs to someone else.
You know what? Just about everyone thinks they will survive a zombie apocalypse. I’m looking around everyone and there isn’t a single person who was adequately prepared, even when the first sign of zombies emerged. The only people who think they’re ready are crazy Americans who go off to the wilderness in a cabin with stockpiles of food. That’s not dealing with the situation, that’s running and hiding, like we’re all doing right now. Dealing with it is putting an end to the zombie horde so that humans can reclaim the Earth as their own.
I spent a solid hour helping a guy fix his car. I don’t know anything about the engine but I did what I could to help out. It turns out the notes and diagrams I downloaded are useful only in theory. Practice reveals that I’m inept. I stared under the bonnet then climbed into the car a few times to try and get it started. I’m guessing there was a problem with the radiator and it was rattling against something else, so we tied a bunch of long grass around the grill to hold it in place.
One of the Algerian’s asked how old we all are. They were surprised to hear that I’m twenty three. I’m not sure if I look younger or older to them, but most of the guys here are in their forties or fifties. We’re just kids in their eyes. I’m still waiting for that moment when I feel like an adult. So far it hasn’t happened. My dad said that feeling only really kicks in when your kid starts primary school, so I’m a long way off.
Part 3.
It’s late and few of us can sleep. The Algerians ask us what the rest of the world is like, mostly in regards to the zombie outbreak. We ask the Algerians what it’s like as well. It’s just your basic exchange of information. I was able to go through my diary and pull out some numbers of infected countries. I’m glad I wrote that down, it shows that I might have some use after all. People are still huddled together in whisper mode. Some of them think they can wait it out right where we are. They talk about the previous uprisings in northern Africa, so they have a fair idea of how long it takes rebels or government fighters to battle it out before there is a cease-fire. I can’t imagine the zombies will agree to a cease-fire. Seven months seems to be the consensus of how long it takes to overthrow a government and defeat the last of the old regime. They’ve been at it for two months already, so our group is wondering if they can survive here for five more months before they risk going back home.
I asked Rachel about waiting here. She’s determined to get back to her mum and she’s been crying because she knew it was a mistake to head south in Spain instead of north. I actually agree. We’ve had a clusterfuck of problems since going south. It always felt as though we didn’t have a choice, but we did. We just took the easier way and tagged along. Crossing the Mediterranean was also a mistake. Cristina and Ediz agree. If we stayed in Spain we would’ve had a chance, but we can’t seem to sit still. We’re trying to stay together while having three different destinations in mind.
There’s no way we’re going to wait for five months when even the two weeks next to Gibraltar was a nightmare. I imagine we could stay here for a couple of days but that will be the height of it. We’ll sit around tomorrow, kinda relaxing, trying to settle in, but the next day will be unbearable. There will be the heat of Algeria to contend with and the restless burden that we should be doing something instead of sitting around. Then the third day will be miserable and we’ll come up with contingency plans. People will be sunburned and covered in blisters. We’ll smell. People will start pissing in the river or using it to bathe and it will scare away the fish or make us sick if we drink the water. Then we’ll remember that zombie apocalypses don’t get easier, they only get worse, so while we’re waiting in the middle of nowhere something bad is happening everywhere else. I give us a week, tops. After that, we’re leaving. In the meantime I’ve been studying my arse off with these phrases I’ve got from Rachel, Cristina, Ediz, and other people.
My hands are blistered to hell from trying to light a fire with sticks and tinder. I have a lighter and some matches but I’m going to have to learn how to do this one day. I have a tiny magnifying glass as well but that will only work in direct sunlight.
My first aid kit is running low. I’ve used a lot of disinfectant on people’s hands and feet, wrapped some gauze around cuts and wounds. Mostly people are deciding to leave their cuts to the open air.
I broke the ice by showing my phone and photos to everyone. They liked seeing the pretty girls and the silly faces we made, especially some of the roommates from Madrid. Sofia, Louise, Katy, Camille, Nadia … I have no idea where any of them are. Some of the guys laughed, nodded and pointed to whatever girl I was with. Then they pulled out their own phones and showed me their families. There was a little girl smiling with her hair in a blue ribbon. I was sitting next to her grandfather and he kept repeating her name, but for the life of me I can’t remember. I was running out of battery so I had to turn off my phone. Thankfully I still have my solar powered charger but it’s a cheap piece of shit that will take days to recharge. There’s no signal here. Can’t call anyone or get online.
Once again, we’re sleeping in the wilderness with no protection from a zombie if it happens to stumble along and find us. The wildlife keeps snapping my attention around. We can’t stay here for months. One of those things will eventually get here. They always do. They just keep coming and coming. The wait will drive us towards an act of stupidity.
It was awkward when the men here started to pray. It’s painfully obvious that we are outsiders and dependent on their kindness.
I’ve noticed that people fall into two categories: good guys and arseholes. You can usually tell right away who is who. So far there’s only one arsehole in our group but I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in shaking my hand.
12 September
Boyer is on the radio. Everyone is listening quietly, no one is interrupting. I don’t speak Algerian. I have no idea what’s going on. A couple of times the group looked around at myself, Rachel, and Cristina. I guess Boyer is talking about foreigners.
Part 2.
Okay, we’ve been given a translated summary. Boyer is doing away with the old regime. He’s trying to unite the people. He had a slight mention of the zombie horde, saying that the old government has allowed the misery to rise and that previous atrocities are coming back to haunt them. He also said that foreigners, invaders and ‘The West’ will be hunted down and exiled. Algeria will not fall under a new colonial power. I guess that explains why everyone was looking at us. He called us spies and agents of the Devil.
He’s your typical politician, I suppose. He speaks out against the bad stuff that happens in government while he does exactly the same, then he blames someone else and keeps on doing it. If he’s got control of the radio then he has more power than the opposition. Perhaps these zombies have a controlled agenda and they aren’t just mindless wanderers. If they can speak with the one voice then maybe the one voice can guide them towards a radio station and take it over.
Why has no single government trusted its people with the truth? None of them have told us exactly what is going on or how to deal with the situation. They’re just protecting their own arses by keeping everyone else in the dark and hoping we’ll trust them when the dust settles.
15 September
Needless to say, we didn’t stay long by the river. Cristina was eager to leave because she ran out of tampons.
We’ve arrived in Ghardaia, a place that took a few minutes to spell and about an hour to pronounce correctly. I’m told we’re in the middle of the northern part of the country, far from the coast. I asked for a distance and was told we’re a two day drive. It took us two days to drive here from the river. It was too bumpy to write anything in the car. When we did stop it was to repair broken wheels or busted radiators or something else. We worked through last night to fix an exhaust pipe that hit a rock and was rattling about. I may have slept for four hours in the last two days.