World War Z

by Max Brooks

  For a while the responsibility rested with the leadership, the officers and senior sergeants. We couldn’t have made a more damaging decision. To have to look into the faces of these men, these boys whom you were responsible for, whom you fought with side by side, shared bread and blankets, saved his lite or have htm save yours. Who can focus on the monumental burden of leadership after having to commit such an act?

  We began to see a noticeable degradation among our field commanders. Dereliction of duty, alcoholism, suicide-suicide became almost epidemic among the officer corps. Our division lost four experienced leaders, three junior lieutenants, and a major, all during the first week of our first campaign. Two of the lieutenants shot themselves, one right after committing the deed, and the other later that night. The third platoon leader chose a more passive method, what we began to call “suicide by combat.” He volunteered for increasingly dangerous missions, acting more like a reckless enlisted man than a responsible leader. He died trying to take on a dozen ghouls with nothing but a bayonet.

  Major Kovpak just vanished. No one knows exactly when. We knew he couldn’t have been taken. The area was thoroughly swept and no one, absolutely no one left the perimeter without an escort. We all knew what probably happened. Colonel Savichev put out an official statement that the major had been sent on a long-range recon mission and had never returned. He even went so far as to recommend him for a first-class Order of the Rodina. You can’t stop the rumors, and nothing is worse for a unit’s morale than to know that one of their officers had deserted. I could not blame the man, I still cannot. Kovpak was a good man, a strong leader. Before the crisis he had done three tours in Chechnya and one in Dagestan. When the dead began to rise, he not only prevented his company from revolting, but led them all, on foot, carrying both supplies and wounded from Curta in the Salib Mountains all the way to Manaskent on the Caspian Sea. Sixty-five days, thirty-seven major engagements. Thirty-seven! He could have become an instructor-he’d more than earned the right-and had even been asked by STAVKA because of his extensive combat experience. But no, he volunteered for an immediate return to action. And now he was a deserter. They used to call this “the Second Decimation,” the fact that almost one in every ten officers killed themselves in those days, a decimation that almost brought our war effort to a crushing halt.

  The logical alternative, the only one, was to therefore let the boys commit the act themselves. I can still remember their faces, dirty and pimply, their red-rimmed eyes wide as they closed their mouths around their rifles. What else could be done? It wasn’t long before they began to kill themselves in groups, all those who’d been bitten in a battle gathering at the field hospital to synchronize the moment when they would all pull the trigger. I guess it was comforting, knowing that they weren’t dying alone. It was probably the only comfort they could expect. They certainly didn’t get it from me.

  I was a religious man in a country that had long since lost its faith. Decades of communism followed by materialistic democracy had left this generation of Russians with little knowledge of, or need for, “the opium of the masses.” As a chaplain, my duties were mainly to collect letters from the condemned boys to their families, and to distribute any vodka I managed to find. It was a next-to-useless existence, I knew, and the way our country was headed, I doubted anything would occur to change that.

  It was right after the battle for Kostroma, just a few weeks before the official assault on Moscow. I had come to the field hospital to give last rights to the infected. They had been set apart, some badly mauled, some still healthy and lucid. The first boy couldn’t have been older than seventeen. He wasn’t bitten, that would have been merciful. The zombie had had its forearms ripped off by the treads of an SU-152 self-propelled gun. All that remained was hanging flesh and broken humerus bones, jagged at the edges, sharp like spears. They stabbed right through the boy’s tunic where whole hands would have just grabbed him. He was lying on a cot, bleeding from his belly, ashen-faced, rifle quivering in his hand. Next to him was a row of five other infected soldiers. I went through the motions of telling them I would pray for their souls. They either shrugged or nodded politely. I took their letters, as I’d always done, gave them a drink, and even passed out a couple cigarettes from their commanding officer. Even though I’d done this many times, somehow I felt strangely different. Something was stirring within me, a tense, tingling sensation that began to work its way up through my heart and lungs. I began to feel my whole body tremble as the soldiers all placed the muzzles of their weapons underneath their chins. “On three,” the oldest of them said. “One… two…” That was as far as they got. The seventeen-year-old flew backward and hit the ground. The others stared dumbfounded at the bullet hole in his forehead, then up to the smoking pistol in my hand, in God’s hand.

  God was speaking to me, I could feel his words ringing in my head. “No more sinning,” he told me, “no more souls resigned to hell.” It was so clear, so simple. Officers killing soldiers had cost us too many good officers, and soldiers killing themselves had cost the Lord too many good souls. Suicide was a sin, and we, his servants-those who had chosen to be his shepherds upon the earth-were the only ones who should bear the cross of releasing trapped souls from infected bodies! That is what I told division commander after he discovered what I’d done, and that is the message that spread first to every chaplain in the field and then to every civilian priest throughout Mother Russia.

  What later became known as the act of “Final Purification” was only the first step of a religious fervor that would surpass even the Iranian revolution of the 1980s. God knew his children had been denied his love for too long. They needed direction, courage, hope! You could say that it is the reason we emerged from that war as a nation of faith, and have continued to rebuild our state, on the basis of that faith.

  Is there any truth to the stories of that philosophy being perverted for political reasons?

  [Pause.] I don’t understand.

  The president declared himself head of the Church…

  Can’t a national leader feel God’s love?

  But what about organizing priests into “death squads,” and assassinating people under the premise of “purifying infected victims”?

  [Pause.] I don’t know what you’re Talking about.

  Isn’t that why you eventually fell out with Moscow? Isn’t that why you’re here?

  [There is a long pause. We hear the sounds of footsteps approaching. Someone knocks at the door. Father Sergei opens it to find a small, ragged child. Mud stains his pale, frightened face. He speaks in a frantic, local dialect, shouting and pointing up the road. The old priest nods solemnly, pats the boy on the shoulder, then turns to me.]

  Thank you for coming. Will you excuse me, please?

  [As I rise to leave, he opens a large wooden chest at the foot of his bed, removing both a bible and a World War II-era pistol.]

  Aboard USS Holo Kai, off the Coast of the Hawaiian Islands

  [Deep Glider 7 looks more like a twin fuselage aircraft than a minisub. I lie on my stomach in the starboard hull, looking out through a thick, transparent nose cone. My pilot, Master Chief Petty Officer Michael Choi, waves at me from the port hull. Choi is one of the “old-timers,” possibly the most experienced diver in the U.S. Navy’s Deep Submergence Combat Corps (DSCC). His gray temples and weathered crow’s-feet clash violently with his almost adolescent enthusiasm. As the mother ship lowers us into the choppy Pacific, I detect a trace of “surfer dude” bleeding through Choi’s otherwise neutral accent.]

  My war never ended. If anything, you could say it’s still escalating. Every month we expand our operations and improve our material and human assets. They say there are still somewhere between twenty and thirty million of them, still washing up on beaches, or getting snagged in fishermen’s nets. You can’t work an offshore oil rig or repair a transatlantic cable without running into a swarm. That’s what this dive is about: trying to find them, track them, and predict their
movements so maybe we can have some advance warning.

  [We hit the whitecaps with a jarring thud. Choi grins, checks his instruments, and shifts the channels on his radio from me to the mother ship. The water before my observation dome froths white for a second, then gives way to light blue as we submerge.]

  You’re not going to ask me about scuba gear or titanium shark suits, are you, because that crap’s got nothing to do with my war? Spear guns and bang sticks and zombie river nets … I can’t help you with any of that. If you want civilians, talk to civilians.

  But the military did use those methods.

  Only for brown water ops, and almost exclusively by army pukes. Personally, I’ve never worn a mesh suit or a scuba rig… well… at least not in combat. My war was strictly ADS. Atmospheric Diving Suit. Kind of like a space suit and a suit of armor all rolled into one. The technology actually goes back a couple hundred years, when some guy invented a barrel with a faceplate and arm holes. After that you had stuff like the Tritonia and the Neufeldt-Kuhnke. They looked like something out of an old 1950s sci-fi movie, “Robby the Robot” and shit. It all kinda fell by the wayside when … do you really care about all this?

  Yes, please…

  Well, that sort of technology fell by the wayside when scuba was invented. It only made a comeback when divers had to go deep, real deep, to work on offshore oil rigs. You see… the deeper you go, the greater the pressure; the greater the pressure, the more dangerous it is for scuba or similar mixed-gas rigs. You’ve got to spend days, sometimes weeks, in a decompression chamber, and if, for some reason, you have to shoot up to the surface… you get the bends, gas bubbles in the blood, in the brain… and we’re not even talking about long-term health hazards like bone necrosis, soaking your body with shit nature never intended to be there.

  [He pauses to check his instruments.]

  The safest way to dive, to go deeper, to stay down longer, was to enclose your whole body in a bubble of surface pressure.

  [He gestures to the compartments around us.]

  Just like we are now-safe, protected, still on the surface as far as our bodies’ concerned. That’s what an ADS does, its depth and duration only limited by armor and life support.

  So it’s like a personal submarine?

  “Submersible.” A submarine can stay down for years, maintaining its own power, making its own air. A submersible can only make short duration dives, like World War II subs or what we’re in now.

  [The water begins to darken, deepening to a purplish ink.]

  The very nature of an ADS, the fact that it’s really just a suit of armor, makes it ideal for blue and black water combat. I’m not knocking soft suits, you know, shark or other mesh rigs. They’ve got ten times the maneuverability, the speed, the agility, but they’re strictly shallow water at best, and if for some reason a couple of those fuckers get ahold of you… I’ve seen mesh divers with broken arms, broken ribs, three with broken necks. Drowning… if your air line was punctured or the regulator’s ripped out of your mouth. Even in a hard helmet on a mesh-lined dry suit, all they’d have to do is hold you down, let your air run out. I’ve seen too many guys go out that way, or else try to race for the surface and let an embolism finish what Zack started.

  Did that happen a lot to mesh suit divers?

  Sometimes, especially in the beginning, but it never happened to us. There was no risk of physical danger. Both your body and your life support are encased in a cast-aluminum or high-strength composite shell. Most models’ joints are steel or titanium. No matter which way Zack turned your arms, even it he managed to get a solid grip, which is hard considering how smooth and round everything is, it was physically impossible to break off a limb. If for some reason you need to jet up to the surface, just jettison your ballast or your thruster pack, if you had one … all suits are positively buoyant. They pop right up like a cork. The only risk might be if Zack were clinging to you during the ascent. A couple times I’ve had buddies surface with uninvited passengers hanging on for dear life … or undeath. [Chuckles.]

  Balloon ascents almost never happened in combat. Most ADS models have forty-eight hours emergency life support. No matter how many Gs dog-piled you, no matter if a hunk of debris came crumbling down or your leg got snagged in an underwater cable, you could sit tight, snug and safe, and just wait for the cavalry. No one ever dives alone, and I think the longest any ADS diver has ever had to cool his heels was six hours. There were times, more than I can count on my fingers, where one of us would get snagged, report it, then follow up by saying that there was no immediate danger, and that the rest of the team should assist only after accomplishing their mission.

  You say ADS models. Was there more than one type?

  We had a bunch: civilian, military, old, new… well. . . relatively new. We couldn’t build any wartime models, so we had to work with what was already available. Some of the older ones dated back to the seventies, the JIMs and SAMs. I’m really glad I never had to operate any of those. They only had universal joints and portholes instead of a face bowl, at least on the early JIMs. I knew one guy, from the British Special Boat Service. He had these mondo blood blisters all along his inner thighs from where the JIM’s leg joints pinched his skin. Kick-ass divers, the SBS, but I’d never swap jobs with them.

  We had three basic U.S. Navy models: the Hardsuit 1200, the 2000, and the Mark 1 Exosuit. That was my baby, the exo. You wanna talk about sci-fi, this thing looked like it was made to fight giant space termites. It was much slimmer than either of the two hardsuits, and light enough that you could even swim. That was the major advantage over the hardsuit, actually over all other ADS systems. To be able to operate above your enemy, even without a power sled or thruster packs, that more than made up for the fact that you couldn’t scratch your itches. The hardsuits were big enough to allow your arms to he pulled into the central cavity to allow you to operate secondary equipment.

  What kind of equipment?

  Lights, video, side scanning sonar. The hardsuits were full-service units, exos were the bargain basement. You didn’t have to worry about a lot of readouts and machinery. You didn’t have any of the distractions or the multitasking of the hardsuits. The exo was sleek and simple, allowing you to focus on your weapon and the field in front of you.

  What kind of weapons did you use?

  At first we had the M-9, kind of a cheap, modified, knockoff of the Russian APS. I say “modified” because no ADS had anything close to resembling hands. You either had four-pronged claws or simple, industrial pincers. Both worked as hand-to-hand weapons-just grab a G’s head and squeeze-but they made it impossible to fire a gun. The M-9 was fixed to your forearm and could be fired electrically. It had a laser pointer for accuracy and air-encased cartridges that fired these four-inch-long steel rods. The major problem was that they were basically designed for shallow water operations. At the depth we needed, they imploded like eggshells. About a year in we got a much more efficient model, the M-ll, actually invented by the same guy who invented both the hardsuit and exo. I hope that crazy Canuck got an assload of medals for what he’s done for us. The only prob-

  lem with it was that DeStRes thought production was too expensive. They kept telling us that between our claws and preexisting construction tools, we had more than enough to handle Zack.

  What changed their minds?

  Troll. We were in the North Sea, repairing that Norwegian natural gas platform, and suddenly there they were… We’d expected some kind of attack-the noise and light of the construction site always attracted at least a handful of them. We didn’t know a swarm was nearby. One of our sentries sounded off, we headed for his beacon, and we were suddenly inundated. Horrible thing to fight hand-to-hand underwater. The bottom churns up, your visibility is shot, like fighting inside a glass of milk. Zombies don’t just die when you hit them, most of the time they disintegrate, fragments of muscle, organ, brain matter, mixed up with the silt and swirling around you. Kids today… fuckin’ A, I sound
like my pops, but it’s true, the kids today, the new ADS divers in the Mark 3s and 4s, they have this “ZeVDeK” — Zero Visibility Detection Kit — with color-imaging sonar and low-light optics. The picture is relayed through a heads-up display right on your face bowl like a fighter plane. Throw in a pair of stereo hydrophones and you’ve got a real sensory advantage over Zack. That was not the case when I first went exo. We couldn’t see, we couldn’t hear-we couldn’t even feel if a G was trying to grab us from behind.

  Why was that?

  Because the one fundamental flaw of an ADS is complete tactile blackout. The simple fact that the suit is hard means you can’t feel anything from the outside world, even if a G has his hands right on you. Unless Zack is actively tugging, trying to pull you back or flip you around, you may not know he’s there until his face is right up against yours. That night at Troll. . . our helmet lights only made the problem worse by throwing up a glare that was only broken by an undead hand or face. That was the only time I was ever spooked… not scared, you understand, just spooked, swimming in this liquid chalk and suddenly a rotting face is jammed against my face bowl.

  The civilian oil workers, they wouldn’t go back to work, even under threat of reprisals, until we, their escorts, were better armed. They’d lost enough of their people already, ambushed out of the darkness. Can’t imagine what that must have been like. You’re in this dry suit, working in near pitch-black, eyes stinging from the light of the welding torch, body numb from the cold or else burning from the hot water pumped through the system. Suddenly you feel these hands, or teeth. You struggle, call for help, try to fight or swim as they pull you up. Maybe a few body parts will rise to the surface, maybe they’ll just pull up a severed lifeline. That was how the DSCC came into being as an official outfit. Our first mission was to protect the rig divers, keep the oil flowing. Later we expanded to beachhead sanitation and harbor clearing.