World War Z

by Max Brooks

  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I don’t miss some things about the old world, mainly just stuff, things I used to have or things I used to think I could have one day. Last week we had a bachelor party for one of the young guys on the block. We borrowed the only working DVD player and a few prewar skin flicks. There was one scene where Lusty Canyon was getting reamed by three guys on the hood of this pearl gray BMW Z4 convertible, and all I could think was Wow, they sure don’t make cars like that anymore.

  Taos, New Mexico, USA

  [The steaks are almost done. Arthur Sinclair flips the sizzling slabs, relishing the smoke.]

  Of all the jobs I’ve done, being a money cop was best. When the new president asked me to step back into my role as SEC chairman, I practically kissed her on the spot. I’m sure, just like my days at DeStRes, I only have the job because no one else wants it. There’s still so many challenges ahead, still so much of the country on the “turnip standard.” Getting people away from barter, and to trust the American dollar again… not easy. The Cuban peso is still king, and so many of our more affluent citizens still have their bank accounts in Havana.

  Just trying to solve the surplus bill dilemma is enough for any administration. So much cash was scooped up after the war, in abandoned vaults, houses, on dead bodies. How do you tell those looters apart from the people who’ve actually kept their hard-earned greenbacks hidden, especially when records of ownership are about as rare as petroleum? That’s why being a money cop is the most important job I’ve ever had. We have to nail the bastards who’re preventing confidence from returning to the American economy, not just the penny-ante looters but the big fish as well, the sleazebags who’re trying to buy up homes before survivors can reclaim them, or lobbying to deregulate food and other essential survival commodities… and that bastard Breckinridge Scott, yes, the Phalanx king, still hiding like a rat in his Antarctic Fortress of Scumditude. He doesn’t know it yet, but we’ve been in talks with Ivan not to renew his lease. A lot of people back home are waiting to see him, particularly the IRS.

  [He grins and rubs his hands together.]

  Confidence, its the fuel that drives the capitalist machine. Our economy can only run if people believe in it; like FDR said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” My father wrote that for him. Well, he claimed he did.

  It’s already starting, slowly but surely. Every day we get a few more registered accounts with American banks, a few more private businesses opening up, a few more points on the Dow. Kind of like the weather. Every year the summer’s a little longer, the skies a little bluer. Its getting better. Just wait and see.

  [He reaches into a cooler of ice, pulling out two brown bottles.]

  Root beer?

  Taos, New Mexico, USA

  [It is a historic day for the Shield Society. They have finally been accepted as an independent branch of the Japanese Self-Defense Forces. Their main duty will be to teach Japanese civilians how to protect themselves from the living dead. Their ongoing mission will also involve learning both armed and unarmed techniques from non-Japanese organizations, and helping to foster those techniques around the world. The Society’s anti-firearm as well as prointernational message have already been hailed as an instant success, drawing journalists and dignitaries from almost all UN nations.

  Tomonaga Ijiro stands at the head of the receiving line, smiling and bowing as he greets his parade of guests. Kondo Tatsumi smiles as well, looking at his teacher from across the room.]

  You know I don’t really believe any of this spiritual “BS,” right? As far as I’m concerned, Tomonaga’s just a crazy old hibakusha, but he has started something wonderful, something I think is vital for the future of Japan. His generation wanted to rule the world, and mine was content to let the world, and by the world I mean your country, rule us. Both paths led to the near destruction of our homeland. There has to be a better way, a middle path where we take responsibility for our own protection, but not so much that it inspires anxiety and hatred among our fellow nations. I can’t tell you if this is the right path; the future is too mountainous to see too far ahead. But I will follow Sensei Tomonaga down this path, myself and the many others who join our ranks every day. Only “the gods” know what awaits us at its end.

  Armagh, Ireland

  [Philip Adlei finishes his drink, and rises to leave.]

  We lost a hell of a lot more than just people when we abandoned them to the dead. That’s all I’m going to say.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  [We finish our lunch as lurgen aggressively snatches the bill from my hand.]

  Please, my choice of food, my treat. I used to hate this stuff, thought it looked like a buffet of vomit. My staff had to drag me here one afternoon, these young Sabras with their exotic tastes. “Just try it, you old yekke,” they’d say. That’s what they called me, a “yekke.” It means tight ass, but the official definition is German Jew. They were right on both counts.

  I was in the “Kindertransport,” the last chance to get Jewish children out of Germany. That was the last time I saw any of my family alive. There’s a little pond, in a small town in Poland, where they used to dump the ashes. The pond is still gray, even half a century later.

  I’ve heard it said that the Holocaust has no survivors, that even those who managed to remain technically alive were so irreparably damaged, that their spirit, their soul, the person that they were supposed to be, was gone forever. I’d like to think that’s not true. But if it is, then no one on Earth survived this war.

  Aboard USS Tracy Bowden

  [Michael Choi leans against the fantail’s railing, staring at the horizon.]

  You wanna know who lost World War Z? Whales. I guess they never really had much of a chance, not with several million hungry boat people and half the world’s navies converted to fishing fleets. It doesn’t take much, just one helo-dropped torp, not so close as to do any physical damage, but close enough to leave them deaf and dazed. They wouldn’t notice the factory ships until it was too late. You could hear it for miles away, the warhead detonations, the shrieks. Nothing conducts sound energy like water.

  Hell of a loss, and you don’t have to be some patchouli stinking crunch-head to appreciate it. My dad worked at Scripps, not the Claremont girl’s school, the oceanographic institute outside of San Diego. That’s why I joined the navy in the first place and how I first learned to love the ocean. You couldn’t help but see California grays. Majestic animals, they were finally making a comeback after almost being hunted to extinction. They’d stopped being afraid of us and sometimes you could paddle out close enough to touch them. They could have killed us in a heartbeat, one smack of a twelve-foot tail fluke, one lunge of a thirtysomething-ton body. Early whalers used to call them devilfish because of the fierce fights they’d put up when cornered. They knew we didn’t mean them any harm, though. They’d even let us pet them, or, maybe if they were feeling protective of a calf, just brush us gently away. So much power, so much potential for destruction. Amazing creatures, the California grays, and now they’re all gone, along with the blues, and finbacks, and humpbacks, and rights. I’ve heard of random sightings of a few belugas and narwhals that survived under the Arctic ice, but there probably aren’t enough for a sustainable gene pool. I know there are still a few intact pods of orcas, but with pollution levels the way they are, and less fish than an Arizona swimming pool, I wouldn’t be too optimistic about their odds. Even if Mama Nature does give those killers some kind of reprieve, adapt them like she did with some of the dinosaurs, the gentle giants are gone forever. Kinda like that movie Oh God where the All Mighty challenges Man to try and make a mackerel from scratch. “You can’t,” he says, and unless some genetic archivist got in there ahead of the torpedoes, you also can’t make a California gray.

  [The sun dips below the horizon. Michael sighs.]

  So the next time someone tries to tell you about how the true losses of this war are “our innocence” or “part of our humanity�
��…

  [He spits into the water.]

  Whatever, bro. Tell it to the whales.

  Denver, Colorado, USA

  [Todd Wainio walks me to the train, savoring the 100 percent tobacco Cuban cigarettes I’ve bought him as a parting gift.]

  Yeah, I lose it sometimes, for a few minutes, maybe an hour. Doctor Chandra told me it was cool though. He counsels right here at the VA. He told me once that it’s a totally healthy thing, like little earthquakes releasing pressure off of a fault. He says anyone who’s not having these “minor Tremors” you really gotta watch out for.

  It doesn’t take much to set me off. Sometimes I’ll smell something, or somebody’s voice will sound really familiar. Last month at dinner, the radio was playing this song, I don’t think it was about my war, I don’t even think it was American. The accent and some of the terms were all different, but the chorus… “God help me, I was only nineteen.”

  [The chimes announce my train’s departure. People begin boarding around us.]

  Funny thing is, my most vivid memory kinda got turned into the national icon of the victory.

  [He motions behind us to the giant mural.]

  That was us, standing on the Jersey riverbank, watching the dawn over New York. We’d just got the word, it was VA Day. There was no cheering, no celebration. It just didn’t seem real. Peace? What the hell did that mean? I’d been afraid for so long, fighting and killing, and waiting to die, that I guess I just accepted it as normal for the rest of my life. I thought it was a dream, sometimes it still feels like one, remembering that day, that sunrise over the Hero City.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special chank-you to my wife, Michelle, for all her love and support.

  To Ed Victor, for starting it all.

  To Steve Ross, Luke Dempsey, and the entire Crown Publishers team.

  To T M. for watching my back.

  To Brad Graham at the Washington Post; Drs. Cohen, Whiteman, and Hayward; Professors Greenberger and Tongun; Rabbi Andy; Father Fraser; STS2SS Bordeaux (USN fair); “B” and “E”; Jim; Jon; Julie; Jessie; Gregg; Honupo; and Dad, for “the human factor.”

  And a final thank-you to the three men whose inspiration made this book possible: Studs Terkel, the late General Sir John Hackett, and, of course, the genius and terror of George A. Romero.

  I love you, Mom.

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