by Paula Guran
Under the mile off moon we trembled listening
To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound
And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing
The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.
Upstairs Claire moaned a little in her sleep. I got up, climbed the creaky stairs as quietly as I could, and eased myself on to the bed beside her. The curtains were pulled to, and the little bedroom under the eaves was getting stuffy in the full heat of the day. The paperback was still in my other hand, finger marking my place, and I read from it again:
We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat
Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.
I shivered, and beside me Claire shivered too, as if in unconscious sympathy. The sun was hot and strong through the bright yellow curtains, but I felt as if I’d never be warm again.
About the Author
Steve Duffy’s stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies in Europe and North America. His third collection of short supernatural fiction, Tragic Life Stories (Ash-Tree Press), was launched in Brighton, England, at the World Horror Convention 2010; his fourth, The Moment of Panic is due to appear in 2011, and will include the International Horror Guild award-winning short story, “The Rag-and-Bone Men.” Steve lives in North Wales. “Lie Still, Sleep Becalmed” was first published in 2007 in the Ash-Tree Press anthology At Ease With The Dead. It was nominated for that year’s International Horror Guild Award for mid-length fiction, and seems to have tickled the fancy of quite a few readers and editors since then, which its author finds hugely gratifying. Thanks are due to Phil Wood, whose input into maritime goings-on was invaluable during the writing of the story, and whose friendship has been invaluable for much, much longer than that.
Story Notes
And my thanks to Barbara Roden who reminded me of this chilling story from At Ease with the Dead: New Tales of the Supernatural and Macabre which she and her husband, Christopher edited a few years back.
Although we know the supernatural is at work here, I couldn’t help but think about this story forensically, too, since some of our zombies display signs of being in the water longer than “Andy.” Here are a few things I found out from Forensic Taphonomy: The Postmortem Fate of Human Remains, edited by by William D. Haglund and Marcella H. Sorg (CRC-Press, 1997): Bodies cool more rapidly in water than in air so decomposition, skeletonization, and disarticulation take longer; the colder the water, the slower the process. Thicker, nonorganic clothing can decelerate it somewhat, too, but marine scavengers chewing, biting, and tearing clothing can increase the surface area of the tissue resulting in faster microsavenger and bacterial activity. Crabs, by the way, like to attack facial flesh, eyes, and soft internal organs first. And wait till you get to the part about the role of sessile invertebrates . . .
The Great Wall: A Story from the Zombie War
Max Brooks
The following interview was conducted by the author as part of his official duties with the United Nations Commission for postwar data collection. Although excerpts have appeared in official UN reports, the interview in its entirety was omitted from Brook’s personal publication, now entitled World War Z due to bureaucratic mismanagement by UN archivists. The following is a first-hand account of a survivor of the great crisis many now refer to simply as “The Zombie War.”
The Great Wall: Section 3947-11, Shaanxi, China
Liu Huafeng began her career as a sales girl at the Takashimaya department store in Taiyuan and now owns a small general store near the sight of its former location. This weekend, as with the first weekend of every month, is her reserve duty. Armed with a radio, a flare gun, binoculars, and a DaDao, a modernized version of the ancient Chinese broadsword, she patrols her five-kilometer stretch of the Great Wall with nothing but the “the wind and my memories” for company.
This section of the Wall, the section I worked on, stretches from Yulin to Shemnu. It had originally been built by the Xia Dynasty, constructed of compacted sand and reed-lined earth encased on both sides by a thick outer shell of fired mud brick. It never appeared on any tourist postcards. It could never have hoped to rival sections of the Ming-Era, iconic stone “dragon spine.” It was dull and functional, and by the time we began the reconstruction, it had almost completely vanished.
Thousands years of erosion; storms and desertification, had taken a drastic toll. The effects of human “progress” had been equally destructive. Over the centuries, locals had used—looted—its bricks for building materials. Modern road construction had done its part, too, removing entire sections that interfered with “vital” overland traffic. And, of course, what nature and peacetime development had begun, the crisis, the infestation and the subsequent civil war finished within the course of several months. In some places, all that was left were crumbling hummocks of compact filler. In many places, there was nothing at all.
I didn’t know about the new government’s plan to restore the Great Wall for our national defense. At first, I didn’t even know I was part of the effort. In those early days, there were so many different people, languages, local dialects that they could have been birdsong for all the sense it made to me. The night I arrived, all you could see were torches and headlights of a few broken-down cars. I had been walking for nine days by this point. I was tired, frightened. I didn’t know what I had found at first, only that the scurrying shapes in front of me were human. I don’t know how long I stood there, but someone on a work gang spotted me. He ran over and started to chatter excitedly. I tried to show him that I didn’t understand. He became frustrated, pointing at what looked like a construction sight behind him, a mass of activity that stretched left and right out into the darkness. Again, I shook my head, gesturing to my ears and shrugging like a fool. He sighed angrily, then raised his hand toward me. I saw he was holding a brick. I thought he was going to hit me with so I started to back away. He then shoved the brick in my hands, motioned to the construction sight, and shoved me toward it.
I got within arm’s length of the nearest worker before he snatched the brick away. This man was from Taiyuan. I understood him clearly. “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?” He snarled at me, “We need more! Go! Go!” And that is how I was “recruited” to work on the new Great Wall of China.
[She gestures to the uniform concrete edifice.]
It didn’t look at all like this that first frantic spring. What you are seeing are the subsequent renovations and reinforcements that adhere to late and postwar standards. We didn’t have anything close to these materials back then. Most of our surviving infrastructure was trapped on the wrong side of the wall.
On the south side?
Yes, on the side that used to be safe, on the side that the Wall . . . that every Wall, from the Xia to the Ming was originally built to protect. The walls used to be a border between the haves and have-nots, between southern prosperity and northern barbarism. Even in modern times, certainly in this part of the country, most of our arable land, as well as our factories, our roads, rail lines and airstrips, almost everything we needed to undertake such a monumental task, was on the wrong side.
I’ve heard that some industrial machinery was transported north during the evacuation.
Only what could be carried on foot, and only what was in immediate proximity to the construction sight. Nothing farther than, say, twenty kilometers, nothing beyond the immediate battle lines or the isolated zones deep in infested territory.
The most valuable resource we could take from the nearby towns were the materials used to construct the towns themselves: wood, metal, cinder blocks, bricks—some of the very same bricks that had originally been pilfered from the wall. All of it went into the mad patchwork, mixed in with what could be manufactured quickly on sight. We used timber from the Great Green Wall5 reforestation project, pieces of furniture and abandoned vehicles.
Even the desert sand beneath our feet was mixed with rubble to form part of the core or else refined and heated for blocks of glass.
Glass?
Large, like so . . . [she draws an imaginary shape in the air, roughly twenty centimeters in length, width and depth]. An engineer from Shijiazhuang had the idea. Before the war, he had owned a glass factory, and he realized that since this province’s most abundant resources are coal and sand, why not use them both? A massive industry sprung up almost overnight, to manufacture thousands of these large, cloudy bricks. They were thick and heavy, impervious to a zombie’s soft, naked fist. “Stronger than flesh” we used say, and, unfortunately for us, much sharper—sometimes the glazier’s assistants would forget to sand down the edges before laying them out for transport.
[She pries her hand from the hilt of her sword. The fingers remain curled like a claw. A deep, white scar runs down the width of one palm.]
I didn’t know to wrap my hands. It cut right through to the bone, severed the nerves. I don’t know how I didn’t die of infection; so many others did.
It was a brutal, frenzied existence. We knew that every day brought the southern hordes closer, and that any second we delayed might doom the entire effort. We slept if we did sleep, where we worked. We ate where we worked, pissed and shit right where we worked. Children—the Night Soil Cubs—would hurry by with a bucket, wait while we did our business or else collect our previously discarded filth. We worked like animals, lived like animals. In my dreams I see a thousand faces, the people I worked with but never knew. There wasn’t time for social interaction. We spoke mainly in hand gestures and grunts. In my dreams I try to find the time to speak to those alongside me, ask their names, their stories. I have heard that dreams are only in black and white. Perhaps that is true, perhaps I only remember the colors later, the light fringes of a girl whose hair had once been dyed green, or the soiled pink woman’s bathrobe wrapped around a frail old man in tattered silken pajamas. I see their faces almost every night, only the faces of the fallen.
So many died. Someone working at your side would sit down for a moment, just a second to catch their breath, and never rise again. We had what could be described as a medical detail, orderlies with stretchers. There was nothing they could really do except try to get them to the aid station. Most of the time they didn’t make it. I carry their suffering, and my shame with me each and every day.
Your shame?
As they sat, or lay at your feet . . . you knew you couldn’t stop what you were doing, not even for a little compassion, a few kind words, at least make them comfortable enough to wait for the medics. You knew the one thing they wanted, what we all wanted, was water. Water was precious in this part of the province, and almost all we had was used for mixing ingredients into mortar. We were given less than half a cup a day. I carried mine around my neck in a recycled plastic soda bottle. We were under strict orders not to share our ration with the sick and injured. We needed it to keep ourselves working. I understand the logic, but to see someone’s broken body curled up amongst the tools and rubble, knowing that the only mercy under heaven was just a little sip of water . . .
I feel guilty every time I think about it, every time I quench my thirst, especially because when it came my time to die, I happened, by sheer chance, to be near the aid station. I was on glass detail, part of the long, human conveyor to and from the kilns. I had been on the project for just under two months; I was starving, feverish, I weighed less than the bricks hanging from either side of my pole. As I turned to pass the bricks, I stumbled, landing on my face, I felt my two front teeth crack and tasted the blood. I closed my eyes and thought, This is my time. I was ready. I wanted it to end. If the orderlies hadn’t been passing by, my wish would have been granted.
For three days, I lived in shame; resting, washing, drinking as much water as I wanted while others were suffering every second on the wall. The doctors told me that I should stay a few extra days, the bare minimum to allow my body to recuperate. I would have listened if I didn’t hear the shouts from an orderly at the mouth of the cave,
“Red Flare!” he was calling. “Red Flare!”
Green flares meant an active assault, red meant overwhelming numbers. Reds had been uncommon, up until that point. I had only seen one, and that was far in the distance near the northern edge of Shemnu. Now they were coming at least once a week. I raced out of the cave, ran all the way back to my section, just in time to see rotting hands and heads begin to poke their way above the unfinished ramparts.
[We halt. She looks down at the stones beneath out feet.]
Here, right here. They were forming a ramp, using their trodden comrades for elevation. The workers were fending them off with whatever they could, tools and bricks, even bare fists and feet. I grabbed a rammer, an implement used for compacting earth. The rammer is an immense, unruly device, a meter-long metal shaft with horizontal handlebars on one end and a large, cylindrical, supremely heavy stone on the other. The rammer was reserved only for the largest and strongest men in our work gang. I don’t know how I managed to lift, aim, and bring it crashing down, over and over, on the heads and faces of the zombies below me . . .
The military was supposed to be protecting us from overrun attacks like these, but there just weren’t enough soldiers left by that time.
[She takes me to the edge of the battlements and points to something roughly a kilometer south of us.]
There.
[In the distance, I can just make out a stone obelisk rising from an earthen mound.]
Underneath that mound is one of our garrison’s last main battle tanks. The crew had run out of fuel and was using it as a pillbox. When they ran out of ammunition, they sealed the hatches and prepared to trap themselves as bait. They held on long after their food ran out and their canteens ran dry. “Fight on!” they would cry over their hand-cranked radio, “Finish the wall! Protect our people! Finish the wall!” The last of them, the seventeen-year-old driver held out for thirty-one days. You couldn’t even see the tank by then, buried under a small mountain of zombies that suddenly moved away as they sensed that boy’s last breath.
By that time, we had almost finished our section of the Great Wall, but the isolated attacks were ending, and the massive, ceaseless, million-strong assault swarms began. If we had had to contend with those numbers in the beginning, if the heroes of the southern cities hadn’t shed their blood to buy us time . . .
The new government knew it had to distance itself from the one it had just overthrown. It had to establish some kind of legitimacy with our people, and the only way to do that was to speak the truth. The isolated zones weren’t “tricked” into becoming decoys like in so many other countries. They were asked, openly and honestly, to remain behind while others fled. It would be a personal choice, one that every citizen would have to make for themselves. My mother, she made it for me.
We had been hiding on the second floor of what used to be our five-bedroom house in what used to be one of Taiyuan’s most exclusive suburban enclaves. My little brother was dying, bitten when my father had sent him out to look for food. He was lying in my parent’s bed, shaking, unconscious. My father was sitting by his side, rocking slowly back and forth. Every few minutes he would call out to us. “He’s getting better! See, feel his forehead. He’s getting better!” The refugee train was passing right by our house. Civil Defense Deputies were checking each door to find out who was going and who was staying. My mother already had a small bag of my things packed; clothes, food, a good pair of walking shoes, my father’s pistol with the last three bullets. She was combing my hair in the mirror, the way she used to do when I was a little girl. She told me to stop crying and that some day soon they would rejoin me up north. She had that smile, that frozen, lifeless smile she only showed for father and his friends. She had it for me now, as I lowered myself down our broken staircase.
[Liu pauses, takes a breath, and lets her claw rest on the hard stone.]
Three months, t
hat is how long it took us to complete the entire Great Wall. From Jingtai in the western mountains to the Great Dragon head on the Shanhaiguan Sea. It was never breached, never overrun. It gave us the breathing space we needed to finally consolidate our population and construct a wartime economy. We were the last country to adopt the Redeker Plan, so long after the rest of the world, and just in time for the Honolulu Conference. So much time; so many lives, all wasted. If the Three Gorges Dam hadn’t collapsed, if that other wall hadn’t fallen, would we have resurrected this one? Who knows. Both are monuments to our shortsightedness, our arrogance, our disgrace.
They say that so many workers died building the original walls that a human life was lost for every mile. I don’t know if that it was true of that time . . .
[Her claw pats the stone.]
But it is now.
About the Author
Max Brooks is the author of the two bestsellers The Zombie Survival Guide (2003) and World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War (2006) He has also written for Saturday Night Live, for which he won an Emmy. His graphic novel The Zombie Survival Guide: Recorded Attacks was published in 2009. A movie of World War Z is planned.
Story Notes
Inspired by Romero zombies and Studs Turkel’s oral history of World War II, Brooks stuck to the “laws” of his first book, The Zombie Survival Guide, in the writing of World War Z. Through a series of “interviews,” Brooks provides a “history” of humanity’s struggle against a worldwide outbreak of zombiism which, like a disease, mindlessly consumed, multiplied, and spread. Just as Romero used zombies for socio-political commentary pertinent to his era, so does Brooks. His zombie plague incorporates modern fears of terrorism, biological warfare, overwhelming natural catastrophes, climate change, and global disease. Since there are survivors left to be interviewed, humanity obviously triumphs, but the author’s globally implemented solution can also be viewed as somewhat horrific.
