Last Words (36 page)

I can barely process what’s going on. Most people in here look so bored you’d think they were zombies anyway. They just sit and stare at the ground. We’ve all seen dead people. We’ve all seen zombies attacking us and trying to kill us. Some have held on for longer than others. I seem to be the one who has travelled the farthest to escape these things. So far it hasn’t been far enough.

19 November

I’ve arrived at some villa in the middle of nowhere. We’re slaves now. I didn’t take Simon’s advice about the ID thing. I lined up, waiting to see a doctor. Instead, it was some guy in a shirt checking my paperwork. He asked me to go through the door on his right. I went down a corridor and two soldiers opened another door for me. That led to the car park that first brought me into the internment camp. There was a bus waiting with ten guys on board. They threw my backpack into the storage area under the bus and told me to get on board. I did. I asked around and no one knew where we were going. After waiting for another hour six guys more came on board, then along came four Sicilians with pistols strapped to their chest. They looked like bare knuckle cage fighters. I look anorexic.

One of them, in broken English, said: “We have found jobs for you. It will be better than this place.”

Everyone glanced at each other. We were being abducted and we knew it. We also knew there was nothing we could do about it. Seventeen unarmed guys verses four brutish men with guns. Fully loaded that would’ve added up to forty eight bullets. That’s three a piece for anyone who tried to run.

No one spoke up. No one picked a fight. No one said anything for the whole bus ride.

It took the best part of ninety minutes. We’re far from the coast now, up a long and winding hill. The villa feels more like a farm with several buildings spread out. We were shown to long, empty rooms with mats on the ground like futons. We were told to dump our bags by our beds (I picked the second from the end, because the end was already taken by the guy in front of me). We were then given our jobs. I’m now a mechanic. Apparently my three hour’s worth of experience in Algeria was enough to qualify me.

We were immediately put to work. I helped some of the guys dismantle a couple of vehicles and Frankenstein the barely working parts into something more serviceable. The garage is large, full of tractors, motorbikes, cars, and tools. The back room has large barrels with pipes running off it like they’re making homebrew wine. Best guess? They’re trying to make petrol. There were large rigs of batteries and solar panels on the roof. They’re trying to convert all of the machines, eventually, to solar or battery powered, but it’s not working as quickly as they’d like.

The rest of the guys from the bus were sent into the field to help with the late harvest.

I spent much of last night, once it was dark, talking to Jason, the guy at the end of the room. I imagine I’m the one he’s going to be speaking to for the rest of our stay here. We’re under no illusion that we’re anything but slaves. There are lots of Sicilians walking around with pistols and rifles. On the drive up here it was very clear that we won’t survive long in the heat and terrain, it’s just rock and dry grass. Jason tells me that isn’t his real name. He doesn’t want to give his real name because he doesn’t want to remember what’s happening to him right now. He wants to block it all out. As such, just about everything he tells me is made up. He says he’s seen stuff that none of us would even believe. I didn’t press for details but he just kept repeating, “Stuff,” with a heavy tone, as though I’m telepathic and understand what he’s talking about. I’ve seen a hundred zombies swimming after me. That was pretty fucked up. I’ve seen them speaking English in Algeria when they recognised what language I spoke. I don’t really care what stuff ‘Jason’ has seen.

There are bars on the windows and the doors are locked at night. My mattress is uncomfortable. We hear people walking around at all hours, talking to each other in Italian. I have no idea what they’re saying. One guy amongst us speaks basic Italian and he said that so far they haven’t said anything interesting, just, “I need to take a piss,” and other nonsense like that.

I can’t help but think of Rachel right now. Is she sitting up on a mattress like me, as a worker? I hope she’s safe. I hope she also knows that I’m okay. I’m not, but … you know. Take a teaspoon of cement and harden the fuck up, I guess.

I’m also pretty sure that none of this would have happened to me if Cristina was still with us. I’ve been thinking about her a lot.

20 November

When we came back from ‘work’ today we found that all of our IDs, passports, and official paperwork have been taken. Our clothes remain. We’re officially kidnapped and held hostage. The Sicilians keep to the party line of: “You have jobs. You will work. When you are done you can go.”

I wonder how much they paid for me. How easy was the bribe? “We want seventeen men who can’t speak Sicilian. Is seventeen thousand euro too much?” That’s all it takes. One little bribe and my future is taken out of my hands.

Right now my only chance of being freed is through Simon. He might be able to find out where I am.

21 November

It has occurred to me that I might be here for years. They had me working the fields today, still working on a late harvest. They don’t want to use the tractors because they need diesel. We’ll be doing this through manual labour. I want to go back to being a mechanic. I guess I wasn’t good enough.

They have no reason to let me go. They have no reason to alert the police or the embassy as to my whereabouts. All I could think about today was strangling someone with my bare hands. This isn’t how you treat another human being. Evan, one of my roommates, told one of the Sicilians that his family has money, they can pay to have him released. The Sicilian told him he has to work. Evan’s family own a chain of florists in Scotland. They have millions of pounds. Not good enough, get back to work.

The thing that really pisses me off about this is that they’re going to get away with this. If these people are connected enough to get slaves working for them then they’re not going to be bothered by the consequences five or ten years down the line. And I’m not important enough to have someone sent to jail over my human rights being trampled.

22 November

I don’t know what’s happening to me, but after lights out I balled my eyes out. I know I’m miserable, I know I’m a prisoner, I know I’ve failed Rachel, but last night my mind was completely blank and I was crying.

24 November

Enzo is a psychotic arsehole. He spent four hours shouting at me today in Italian. I don’t speak Italian. Not a word. I carried on working while he shouted at me. What is the point in shouting at someone if they can’t understand you? I decided right then that if I ever get out of this place I’m going to find a way to get back at them. I’m going to file charges and prosecute them. I can figure out where I am on the map. There has to be a paper trail of bribes that will point the blame at Enzo. He won’t get away with this. I will burn him and all the others working here. There are trucks in the garage with license plates. I’ve memorised them. I spend all day reciting those letters and numbers back to myself. There are trucks that come by every day. I’ve memorised those as well. Someone knows who the trucks are registered to. Even if it takes me twenty years of failed court attempts I will have my revenge. I will come back on a holiday, buy a rifle, and shoot Enzo in the face.

29 November

There’s nothing to write about. We’re woken up by an Italian shouting something at us which, according to Lucas, means: “Good morning, it’s a beautiful day, it’s time to live like kings.” I get up, I shower, I have breakfast, I check with Enzo who says either, “Field,” or, “There,” pointing to the garage. I work until someone shouts, “Mangiare.” We have half an hour to eat our fill, then we go back to work until the sun starts to set. When there’s no more light in the sky we go to dinner, eat pasta, bread, and sometimes we’re given coffee or canned fruit. Then we have time to wash our clothes and hang them out for the night. The rest of the time is ours. At some point the guards come along and tell us it’s light’s out. The batteries from the solar panels don’t last all night, but the lights in the main house stay on. I go to sleep. The only change to the day is when a truck comes up with goods and equipment, then I get to spend twenty minutes loading or unloading whatever is brought along.

This afternoon I was cleaning up after lunch, washing all of the dishes, and I just drifted off while staring at a steak knife. It was just lying on the side of the sink. I could imagine a dozen things I could do with it. I could go on a murderous rampage and gut Enzo. I could stop whoever it is from snoring, permanently.

I know why Simon from the BBC isn’t here. The authorities knew he would be a hassle. He would make sure that Enzo and everyone from the farm were crucified for running this operation. He’s probably still in quarantine, working on a story to release to the BBC once he gets out. Maybe he’ll be able to track me down.

There is no indication that we’re ever leaving.

2 December

Someone keeps snoring. It’s not what I need in the middle of the night before a long day of back breaking work.

12 December

I can’t believe we’re coming up to Christmas. I turned twenty four the other day and I completely forgot about it. I also just figured out it was nine months after my dad’s birthday. Yay.

There’s no news up here. No one speaks of the zombies. They could have all been exterminated by now and still we’re here, slaving away with no idea of what’s happening in the rest of the world. My parents must think that I’m dead. They knew I was in Tunis. They would know that NATO started attacking and that they haven’t heard from me in weeks.

I’m never going to see Basil again, am I? He may not even remember me if I ever get back to England.

I barely think about Rachel. It’s just … if they’re treating me like this, like nothing, then they must think of Rachel as nothing either. When they’re done with me they might shoot me and bury me in a ditch. Wouldn’t they do the same to her? Whenever I think of her all I imagine is that someone has been raping her for weeks. I wonder if by now she’s stopped trying to fight them off and just accepts her fate? That’s why I can’t think about her, because if she gave up then I might give up.

We’re moving around with shears and wheelbarrows, carrying things back to one of the buildings where all of this crap gets sorted. We keep some of the food to eat. Someone asked me to move my futon to another part of the room because he hates the two guys he’s sleeping next to. He kept saying that if he had to wake up to them again he would have to break their face. I obliged, but I now understand why he hated them. They fart towards me, they burp, they’re the slobs from hell. They stand on my mattress with their shoes on to chat to each other, they stand on my mattress to fix their beds. I’ve told them to stop it. The guy before me told them to stop it. They keep saying sorry but they don’t change. Last night one of them was jerking off and getting into it. He didn’t care if anyone else was bothered. I want to break their faces as well.

Another stupid thing is the conversations I’ve had to have with the other prisoners. No one is interesting here. No one has a ray of hope. We’re all miserable fucks and none of us want to see each other again. I was trying to wash my jeans and get them clean while Shrieker was telling me about his travels during the outbreak. He flew from Rome to Syracuse and has all of these survival tips for when you encounter a zombie. I asked him flat out: “How many zombies have you encountered?”

“Twenty,” he said. I told him that I was in the Madrid riots, which he hadn’t heard of, and we escaped a zombie on the train tracks. We were also attacked on our way to Getafe and I saw someone die in front of me. I saw two zombies from the roof and they changed my world forever. I was there when someone got hit by a motorbike. I passed three dead people on the side of the road. I was chased by two zombies near Gibraltar. We ran from dozens in Algeria and hundreds in Tunis. The girl I can’t stop dreaming about was killed when we tried to run from them. They were swimming after us on our way to Sicily. So, really, shut the fuck up and stop shrieking when you laugh.

He left, but that allowed Dribbles to come up and ask me some genuine questions. He hadn’t seen any. He, like Josh, just stayed in a hotel during the outbreak until they kicked him out and he spent his time wandering around until he was picked up by the police. He asked me how I escaped all of that. I don’t know. I was with friends and we ran for most of it. Dribbles keeps stealing people’s pillows and swapping them for his.

1 January

I only know the date because the Italians were celebrating New Year’s last night. No one told the foreigners. We stood by the window looking at the main house with its lights on. The people inside were all cheering and drinking, counting down from ten. We stood by the window not saying a word.

We haven’t had a day off since arriving. I think I’ve pulled a muscle in my right shoulder.

A while ago, Dumbass, one of the roommates, disappeared. He was working in the field during the day and he never came to lunch. No one really noticed until dinner time. The Sicilians went looking for him but no one was willing to use their car. It’s a smart move, really. No one can catch up to him. I have no idea where he planned on going but it’s given me the motivation to get out of here. He had to leave his backpack, though. I don’t know if I could do that. It would mean leaving behind just about everything I have left in this world, except for what I’m wearing.

4 January

I’ve tried to keep my spirits up by reading over previous entries. I shouldn’t have bothered, it’s only left me more depressed than ever. I can’t seem to stop crying at night. I think about Alana more than I should. I wake up so horribly miserable that it becomes the only thing I can think about during the day. I can’t believe I’m still thinking of her almost a year after we broke up. But you know what? If we had broken up two months earlier or remained together for two months more then I wouldn’t be in Sicily right now. I took this trip to get away from her, to have something to remember later on in life. I wouldn’t have been in Spain during the outbreak. There’s a good chance that Rachel wouldn’t have gone south towards Gibraltar. They might have gone north, towards France. Cristina certainly wouldn’t have died in Algeria.