World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War

Page 25

Grabbers?
The ones reaching through broken windows. On the open road, I at least had a chance of dodging them, but on the on-ramp, you’re hemmed in on either side. That was the worst part, by far, those few minutes trying to get up onto the freeway. I had to go in between the cars; my ankle wouldn’t let me get on top of them. These rotting hands would reach out for me, grabbing my flight suit or my wrist. Every head shot cost me seconds that I didn’t have. The steep incline was already slowing me down. My ankle was throbbing, my lungs were aching, and the swarm was now gaining on me fast. If it hadn’t been for Mets…
She was shouting at me the whole time. “Move your ass, you fuckin’ bitch!” She was getting pretty raw by then. “Don’t you dare quit…don’t you DARE crap out on me!” She never let up, never gave me an inch. “What are you, some weak little victim?” At that point I thought I was. I knew I could never make it. The exhaustion, the pain, more than anything, I think, the anger at fucking up so badly. I actually considered turning my pistol around, wanting to punish myself for…you know. And then Mets really hit me. She roared, “What are you, your fucking mother!?!”
That did it. I hauled ass right up onto the interstate.
I reported to Mets that I’d made it, then asked, “Now what the fuck do I do?”
Her voice suddenly got very soft. She told me to look up. A black dot was heading at me from out of the morning sun. It was following the freeway and grew very quickly into the form of a UH-60. I let out a whoop and popped my signal flare.
The first thing I saw when they winched me aboard was that it was a civilian chopper, not government Search and Rescue. The crew chief was a big Cajun with a thick goatee and wraparound sunglasses. He asked, “Where de’ hell you come from?” Sorry if I butchered the accent. I almost cried and punched him in his thigh-sized bicep. I laughed and said that they work fast. He shot me a look like I didn’t know what I was talking about. It turned out later that this wasn’t the rescue team but just a routine air shuttle between Baton Rouge and Lafayette. I didn’t know at that moment, and I didn’t care. I reported to Mets that I got my pickup, that I was safe. I thanked her for everything she’d done for me, and…and so I wouldn’t really start bawling, I tried to cover with a joke about finally getting that episode of The View. I never got a response.
She sounds like a hell of a Skywatcher.
She was a hell of a woman.
You said you had your “suspicions” by this point.
No civilian, even a veteran Skywatcher, could know so much about what goes into wearing those wings. She was just too savvy, too informed, the kind of baseline knowledge of someone who had to have gone through it herself.
So she was a pilot.
Definitely; not air force—I would have known her—but maybe a squid or a jarhead. They’d lost as many pilots as the air force on resupply hops like mine, and eight out of ten were never accounted for. I’m sure that she must have run into a situation like mine, had to ditch, lost her crew, maybe even blamed herself for it like me. Somehow she managed to find that cabin and spent the rest of the war as one kick-ass Skywatcher.
That makes sense.
Doesn’t it?
[There is an awkward pause. I search her face, waiting for more.]
What?
They never found her.
No.
Or the cabin.
No.
And Honolulu never had any record of a Skywatcher with the call sign Mets Fan.
You’ve done your homework.
I…
You probably also read my after-action report, right?
Yes.
And the psych evaluation they tacked on after my official debriefing.
Well…
Well, it’s bullshit, okay? So what if everything she told me was information I’d already been briefed on, so what if the psych team “claim” my radio was knocked out before I hit the mud, and so the fuck what if Mets is short for Metis, the mother of Athena, the Greek goddess with the stormy gray eyes. Oh, the shrinks had a ball with that one, especially when they “discovered” that my mother grew up in the Bronx.
And that remark she made about your mother?
Who the hell doesn’t have mother issues? If Mets was a pilot, she was a natural gambler. She knew she had a good chance of scoring a hit with “mom.” She knew the risk, took her shot…Look, if they thought I’d cracked up, why didn’t I lose my flight status? Why did they let me have this job? Maybe she wasn’t a pilot herself, maybe she was married to one, maybe she’d wanted to be one but never made it as far as I did. Maybe she was just a scared, lonely voice that did what she could to help another scared lonely voice from ending up like her. Who cares who she was, or is? She was there when I needed her, and for the rest of my life, she’ll always be with me.
PROVINCE OF BOHEMIA, THE EUROPEAN UNION
[It is called Kost, “the Bone,” and what it lacks in beauty it more than makes up for in strength. Appearing to grow out of its solid rock foundation, this fourteenth-century Gothic “Hrad” casts an intimidating shadow over the Plakanek Valley, an image David Allen Forbes is keen to capture with his pencil and paper. This will be his second book, Castles of the Zombie War: The Continent. The Englishman sits under a tree, his patchwork clothing and long Scottish sword already adding to this Arthurian setting. He abruptly switches gears as I arrive, from serene artist to painfully nervous storyteller.]
When I say that the New World doesn’t have our history of fixed fortifications, I’m only referring to North America. There are the Spanish coastal fortresses, naturally, along the Caribbean, and the ones we and the French built in the Lesser Antilles. Then there are the Inca ruins in the Andes, although they never experienced direct sieges. 1 Also, when I say “North America,” that does not include the Mayan and Aztec ruins in Mexico—that business with the Battle of Kukulcan, although I suppose that’s Toltec, now, isn’t it, when those chaps held off so many Zed Heads on the steps of that bloody great pyramid. So when I say “New World,” I’m really referring to the United States and Canada.
This isn’t an insult, you understand, please don’t take it as such. You’re both young countries, you don’t have the history of institutional anarchy we Europeans suffered after the fall of Rome. You’ve always had standing, national governments with the forces capable of enforcing law and order.
I know that wasn’t true during your westward expansion or your civil war, and please, I’m not discounting those pre–Civil War fortresses or the experiences of those defending them. I’d one day like to visit Fort Jefferson. I hear those who survived there had quite a time of it. All I’m saying is, in Europe’s history, we had almost a millennia of chaos where sometimes the concept of physical safety stopped at the battlements of your lord’s castle. Does that make sense? I’m not making sense; can we start again?
No, no, this is fine. Please, continue.
You’ll edit out all the daft bits.
You got it.
Right then. Castles. Well…I don’t want for a moment to overstate their importance for the general war effort. In fact, when you compare them to any other type of fixed fortification, modern, modified, and so forth, their contribution does seem quite negligible, unless you’re like me, and that contribution was what saved your life.
This doesn’t mean that a mighty fortress was naturally our God. For starters, you must understand the inherent difference between a castle and a palace. A lot of so-called castles were really nothing more than just great impressive homes, or else had been converted to such after their defensive value had become obsolete. These once impregnable bastions now had so many windows cut into the ground floor that it would have taken forever to brick them all up again. You’d be better off in a modern block of flats with the staircase removed. And as far as those palaces that were built as nothing more than status symbols, places like Chateau Ussé or Prague “Castle,” they were little more than death traps.
Just look at Versailles. That was a first-rate cock-up. Small wonder the French government chose to build their national memorial on its ashes. Did you ever read that poem by Renard, about the wild roses that now grow in the memorial garden, their petals stained red with the blood of the damned?
Not that a high wall was all you needed for long-term survival. Like any static defense, castles had as many internal as external dangers. Just look at Muiderslot in Holland. One case of pneumonia, that’s all it took. Throw in a wet, cold autumn, poor nutrition, and lack of any genuine medications…Imagine what that must have been like, trapped behind those high stone walls, those around you fatally ill, knowing your time was coming, knowing the only slim hope you had was to escape. The journals written by some of the dying tell of people going mad with desperation, leaping into that moat choked with Zed Heads.
And then there were fires like the ones at Braubach and Pierrefonds; hundreds trapped with nowhere to run, just waiting to be charred by the flames or asphyxiated by the smoke. There were also accidental explosions, civilians who somehow found themselves in possession of bombs but had no idea how to handle or even store them. At Miskolc Diosgyor in Hungary, as I understand it, someone got their hands on a cache of military-grade, sodium-based explosives. Don’t ask me what exactly it was or why they had it, but nobody seemed to know that water, not fire, was the catalytic agent. The story goes that someone was smoking in the armory, caused some small fire or whatnot. The stupid sods thought they were preventing an explosion by dousing the crates in water. It blew a hole right through the wall and the dead surged in like water through a breached dam.
At least that was a mistake based on ignorance. I can’t even begin to forgive what happened at Chateau de Fougeres. They were running low on supplies, thought that they could dig a tunnel under their undead attackers. What did they think this was, The Great Escape? Did they have any professional surveyors with them? Did they even understand the basics of trigonometry? The bloody tunnel exit fell short by over half a kilometer, came up right in a nest of the damn things. Stupid wankers hadn’t even thought to equip their tunnel with demolition charges.
Yes, there were cock-ups aplenty, but there were also some noteworthy triumphs. Many were subjected to only short-term sieges, the good fortune of being on the right side of the line. Some in Spain, Bavaria, or Scotland above the Antonine 2 only had to hold out for weeks, or even days. For some, like Kisimul, it was only a question of getting through one rather dodgy night. But then there were the true tales of victory, like Chenonceau in France, a bizarre little Disneyesque castle built on a bridge over the Cher River. With both connections to land severed, and the right amount of strategic forethought, they managed to hold their position for years.
They had enough supplies for years?
Oh good lord, no. They simply waited for first snowfall, then raided the surrounding countryside. This was, I should imagine, standard procedure for almost anyone under siege, castle or not. I’m sure those in your strategic “Blue Zones,” at least those above the snowline, operated in much the same manner. In that way we were fortunate that most of Europe freezes in winter. Many of the defenders I’ve spoken to have agreed that the inevitable onset of winter, long and brutal as it was, became a lifesaving reprieve. As long as they didn’t freeze to death, many survivors took the opportunity of frozen Zed Heads to raid the surrounding countryside for everything they’d need for the warmer months.
It’s not surprising how many defenders chose to remain in their strongholds even with the opportunity to flee, be it Bouillon in Belgium or Spis in Slovakia or even back home like Beaumaris in Wales. Before the war, the place had been nothing but a museum piece, a hollow shell of roofless chambers and high concentric walls. The town council should be given the VC for their accomplishments, pooling resources, organizing citizens, restoring this ruin to its former glory. They had just a few months before the crisis engulfed their part of Britain. Even more dramatic is the story of Conwy, both a castle and medieval wall that protected the entire town. The inhabitants not only lived in safety and relative comfort during the stalemate years, their access to the sea allowed Conwy to become a springboard for our forces once we began to retake our country. Have you ever read Camelot Mine?
[I shake my head.]
You must find yourself a copy. It’s a cracking good novel, based on the author’s own experiences as one of the defenders of Caerphilly. He began the crisis on the second floor of his flat in Ludlow, Wales. As his supplies ran out and the first snow fell, he decided to strike out in search of more permanent lodgings. He came upon the abandoned ruin, which had already been the sight of a halfhearted, and ultimately fruitless, defense. He buried the bodies, smashed the frozen Zed Heads, and set about restoring the castle on his own. He worked tirelessly, in the most brutal winter on record. By May, Caerphilly was prepared for the summer siege, and by the following winter, it became a haven for several hundred other survivors.
[He shows me some of his sketches.]
A masterpiece, isn’t it, second largest in the British Isles.
What’s the first?
[He hesitates.]
Windsor.
Windsor was your castle.
Well, not mine personally.
I mean, you were there.
[Another pause.]
It was, from a defensive standpoint, as close as one could come to perfection. Before the war, it was the largest inhabited castle in Europe, almost thirteen acres. It had its own well for water, and enough storage space to house a decade’s worth of rations. The fire of 1992 led to a state-of-the-art suppression system, and the subsequent terrorist threats upgraded security measures to rival any in the UK. Not even the general public knew what their tax dollars were paying for: bulletproof glass, reinforced walls, retractable bars, and steel shutters hidden so cleverly in windowsills and door frames.