The Essential Max Brooks: The Zombie Survival Guide and World War Z

by Max Brooks

  Somebody yelled…“Here they come!” Mommy came and picked me up. They took our bench and put it next to the door. They put all the benches next to the door. “Quick!” “Jam the door!” [She mimics several different voices.] “I need a hammer!” “Nails!” “They’re in the parking lot!” “They’re coming this way!” [She turns to Doctor Kelner.] Can I?

  [Doctor Sommers looks unsure. Doctor Kelner smiles and nods. I later learn that the room is soundproofed for this reason.]

  [Sharon mimics the moan of a zombie. It is undoubtedly the most realistic I have ever heard. Clearly, by their discomfort, Sommers and Kelner agree.]

  They were coming. They came bigger. [Again she moans. Then follows up by pounding her right fist on the table.] They wanted to come in. [Her blows are powerful, mechanical.] People screamed. Mommy hugged me tight. “It’s okay.” [Her voice softens as she begins to stroke her own hair.] “I won’t let them get you. Shhhh….”

  [Now she bangs both fists on the table, her strikes becoming more chaotic as if to simulate multiple ghouls.] “Brace the door!” “Hold it! Hold it!” [She simulates the sound of shattering glass.] The windows broke, the windows in the front next to the door. The lights got black. Grown-ups got scared. They screamed.

  [Her voice returns to her mother’s.] “Shhhh…baby. I won’t let them get you.” [Her hands go from her hair to her face, gently stroking her forehead and cheeks. Sharon gives Kelner a questioning look. Kelner nods. Sharon’s voice suddenly simulates the sound of something large breaking, a deep phlegm-filled rumble from the bottom of her throat.] “They’re coming in! Shoot ’em, shoot ’em!” [She makes the sound of gunfire then…] “I won’t let them get you, I won’t let them get you.” [Sharon suddenly looks away, over my shoulder to something that isn’t there.] “The children! Don’t let them get the children!” That was Mrs. Cormode. “Save the children! Save the children!” [Sharon makes more gunshots. She balls her hands into a large double fist, bringing it down hard on an invisible form.] Now the kids started crying. [She simulates stabbing, punching, striking with objects.] Abbie cried hard. Mrs. Cormode picked her up. [She mimes lifting something, or someone, up and swinging them against the wall.] And then Abbie stopped. [She goes back to stroking her own face, her mother’s voice has become harder.] “Shhh…it’s okay, baby, it’s okay…” [Her hands move down from her face to her throat, tightening into a strangling grip.] “I won’t let them get you. I WON’T LET THEM GET YOU!”

  [Sharon begins to gasp for air.]

  [Doctor Sommers makes a move to stop her. Doctor Kelner puts up a hand. Sharon suddenly ceases, throwing her arms out to the sound of a gunshot.]

  Warm and wet, salty in my mouth, stinging my eyes. Arms picked me up and carried me. [She gets up from the table, mimicking a motion close to a football.] Carried me into the parking lot. “Run, Sharon, don’t stop!” [This is a different voice now, not her mother’s.] “Just run, run-run-run!” They pulled her away from me. Her arms let me go. They were big, soft arms.

  KHUZHIR, OLKHON ISLAND, LAKE BAIKAL, THE HOLY RUSSIAN EMPIRE

  [The room is bare except for a table, two chairs, and a large wall mirror, which is almost sure to be one-way glass. I sit across from my subject, writing on the pad provided for me (my transcriber has been forbidden for “security reasons”). Maria Zhuganova’s face is worn, her hair is graying, her body strains the seams of the fraying uniform she insists on wearing for this interview. Technically we are alone, although I sense watching eyes behind the room’s one-way glass.]

  We didn’t know that there was a Great Panic. We were completely isolated. About a month before it began, about the same time as that American newswoman broke the story, our camp was placed on indefinite communication blackout. All the televisions were removed from the barracks, all the personal radios and cell phones, too. I had one of those cheap disposable types with five prepaid minutes. It was all my parents could afford. I was supposed to use it to call them on my birthday, my first birthday away from home.

  We were stationed in North Ossetia, Alania, one of our wild southern republics. Our official duty was “peacekeeping,” preventing ethnic strife between the Ossetia and Ingush minorities. Our rotation was up about the same time they cut us off from the world. A matter of “state security” they called it.

  Who were “they”?

  Everyone: our officers, the Military Police, even a plain-clothed civilian who just seemed to appear one day out of nowhere. He was a mean little bastard, with a thin, rat face. That’s what we called him: “Rat Face.”

  Did you ever try to find out who he was?

  What, me personally? Never. Neither did anyone else. Oh, we griped; soldiers always gripe. But there also wasn’t time for any serious complaints. Right after the blackout was put into effect, we were placed on full combat alert. Up until then it had been easy duty—lazy, monotonous, and broken only by the occasional mountain stroll. Now we were in those mountains for days at a time with full battle dress and ammo. We were in every village, every house. We questioned every peasant and traveler and…I don’t know…goat that crossed our path.

  Questioned them? For what?

  I didn’t know. “Is everyone in your family present?” “Has anyone gone missing?” “Has anyone been attacked by a rabid animal or man?” That was the part that confused me the most. Rabid? I understood the animal part, but man? There were a lot of physical inspections, too, stripping these people to their bare skin while the medics searched every inch of their bodies for…something…we weren’t told what.

  It didn’t make sense, nothing did. We once found a whole cache of weapons, 74s, a few older 47s, plenty of ammo, probably bought from some corrupt opportunist right in our battalion. We didn’t know who the weapons belonged to; drug runners, or the local gangsters, maybe even those supposed “Reprisal Squads” that were the reason for our deployment in the first place. And what did we do? We left it all. That little civilian, “Rat Face,” he had a private meeting with some of the village elders. I don’t know what was discussed, but I can tell you that they looked scared half to death: crossing themselves, praying silently.

  We didn’t understand. We were confused, angry. We didn’t understand what the hell we were doing out there. We had this one old veteran in our platoon, Baburin. He’d fought in Afghanistan and twice in Chechnya. It was rumored that during Yeltsin’s crackdown, his BMP19 was the first to fire on the Duma. We used to like to listen to his stories. He was always good-natured, always drunk…when he thought he could get away with it. He changed after the incident with the weapons. He stopped smiling, there were no more stories. I don’t think he ever touched a drop after that, and when he spoke to you, which was rare, the only thing he ever said was, “This isn’t good. Something’s going to happen.” Whenever I tried to ask him about it, he would just shrug and walk away. Morale was pretty low after that. People were tense, suspicious. Rat Face was always there, in the shadows, listening, watching, whispering into the ears of our officers.

  He was with us the day we swept a little no-name town, this primitive hamlet at what looked like the edge of the world. We’d executed our standard searches and interrogations. We were just about to pack it in. Suddenly this child, this little girl came running down the only road in town. She was crying, obviously terrified. She was chattering to her parents…I wish I could have taken the time to learn their language…and pointing across the field. There was a tiny figure, another little girl, staggering across the mud toward us. Lieutenant Tikhonov raised his binoculars and I watched his face lose its color. Rat Face came up next to him, gave a look through his own glasses, then whispered something in the lieutenant’s ear. Petrenko, platoon sharpshooter, was ordered to raise his weapon and center the girl in his sights. He did. “Do you have her?” “I have her.” “Shoot.” That’s how it went, I think. I remember there was a pause. Petrenko looked up at the lieutenant and asked him to repeat the order. “You heard me,” he said angrily. I was farther away than Pet
renko and even I’d heard him. “I said eliminate the target, now!” I could see the tip of his rifle was shaking. He was a skinny little runt, not the bravest or the strongest, but suddenly he lowered his weapon and said he wouldn’t do it. Just like that. “No, sir.” It felt like the sun froze in the sky. No one knew what to do, especially Lieutenant Tikhonov. Everyone was looking at one another, then we were all looking out at the field.

  Rat Face was walking out there, slowly, almost casually. The little girl was now close enough so we could see her face. Her eyes were wide, locked on Rat Face. Her arms were raised, and I could just make out this high-pitched, rasping moan. He met her halfway across the field. It was over before most of us realized what had happened. In one smooth motion, Rat Face pulled a pistol from underneath his coat, shot her right between the eyes, then turned around and sauntered back toward us. A woman, probably the little girl’s mother, exploded into sobs. She fell to her knees, spitting and cursing at us. Rat Face didn’t seem to care or even notice. He just whispered something to Lieutenant Tikhonov, then remounted the BMP as if he was hailing a Moscow taxicab.

  That night…lying awake in my bunk, I tried not to think about what had happened. I tried not to think about the fact that the MPs had taken Petrenko away, or that our weapons had been locked in the armory. I knew I should have felt bad for the child, angry, even vengeful toward Rat Face, and maybe even a little bit guilty because I didn’t lift a finger to stop it. I knew those were the kinds of emotions I should have been feeling; at that point the only thing I could feel was fear. I kept thinking about what Baburin had said, that something bad was going to happen. I just wanted to go home, see my parents. What if there’d been some horrible terrorist attack? What if it was a war? My family lived in Bikin, almost within sight of the Chinese border. I needed to speak to them, to make sure they were okay. I worried so much that I started throwing up, so much so that they checked me into the infirmary. That’s why I missed the patrol that day, that’s why I was still on bed rest when they came back the following afternoon.

  I was in my bunk, rereading an outdated copy of Semnadstat.20 I heard a commotion, vehicle engines, voices. A crowd was already assembled on the parade ground. I pushed my way through and saw Arkady standing in the center of the mob. Arkady was the heavy machine gunner from my squad, a big bear of a man. We were friends because he kept the other men away from me, if you understand what I mean. He said I reminded him of his sister. [Smiles sadly.] I liked him.

  There was someone crawling at his feet. It looked like an old woman, but there was a burlap hood over her head and a chain leash wrapped around her neck. Her dress was torn and the skin of her legs had been scraped clean off. There was no blood, just this black pus. Arkady was well into a loud, angry speech. “No more lies! No more orders to shoot civilians on sight! And that’s why I put the little zhopoliz down…”

  I looked for Lieutenant Tikhonov but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I got a ball of ice in my stomach.

  “…because I wanted you all to see!” Arkady lifted the chain, pulling the old babushka up by her throat. He grabbed the hood and ripped it off. Her face was gray, just like the rest of her, her eyes were wide and fierce. She snarled like a wolf and tried to grab Arkady. He wrapped one powerful hand around her throat, holding her at arm’s length.

  “I want you all to see why we are here!” He grabbed the knife from his belt and plunged it into the woman’s heart. I gasped, we all did. It was buried up to the hilt and she continued to squirm and growl. “You see!” he shouted, stabbing her several more times. “You see! This is what they’re not telling us! This is what they have us breaking our backs to find!” You could see heads start to nod, a few grunts of agreement. Arkady continued, “What if these things are everywhere? What if they’re back home, with our families right now!” He was trying to make eye contact with as many of us as possible. He wasn’t paying enough attention to the old woman. His grip loosened, she pulled free and bit him on the hand. Arkady roared. His fist caved in the old woman’s face. She fell to his feet, writhing and gurgling that black goo. He finished the job with his boot. We all heard her skull crack.

  Blood was trickling down the gouge in Arkady’s fist. He shook it at the sky, screaming as the veins in his neck began to bulge. “We want to go home!” he bellowed. “We want to protect our families!” Others in the crowd began to pick it up. “Yes! We want to protect our families! This is a free country! This is a democracy! You can’t keep us in prison!” I was shouting, too, chanting with the rest. That old woman, the creature that could take a knife in the heart without dying…what if they were back home? What if they were threatening our loved ones…my parents? All the fear, all the doubt, every tangled, negative emotion all fused into rage. “We want to go home! We want to go home!” Chanting, chanting, and then…A round cracked past my ear and Arkady’s left eye imploded. I don’t remember running, or inhaling the tear gas. I don’t remember when the Spetznaz commandos appeared, but suddenly they were all around us, beating us down, shackling us together, one of them stepping on my chest so hard I thought I was going to die right then and there.

  Was that the Decimation?

  No, that was the beginning. We weren’t the first army unit to rebel. It had actually started about the time the MPs first closed down the base. About the time we staged our little “demonstration,” the government had decided how to restore order.

  [She straightens her uniform, composes herself before speaking.]

  To “decimate”…I used to think it meant just to wipe out, cause horrible damage, destroy…it actually means to kill by a percentage of ten, one out of every ten must die…and that’s exactly what they did to us.

  The Spetznaz had us assemble on the parade ground, full dress uniform no less. Our new commanding officer gave a speech about duty and responsibility, about our sworn oath to protect the motherland, and how we had betrayed that oath with our selfish treachery and individual cowardice. I’d never heard words like that before. “Duty?” “Responsibility?” Russia, my Russia, was nothing but an apolitical mess. We lived in chaos and corruption, we were just trying to get through the day. Even the army was no bastion of patriotism; it was a place to learn a trade, get food and a bed, and maybe even a little money to send home when the government decided it was convenient to pay its soldiers. “Oath to protect the motherland?” Those weren’t the words of my generation. That was what you’d hear from old Great Patriotic War veterans, the kind of broken, demented geezers who used to besiege Red Square with their tattered Soviet banners and their rows and rows of medals pinned to their faded, moth-eaten uniforms. Duty to the motherland was a joke. But I wasn’t laughing. I knew the executions were coming. The armed men surrounding us, the men in the guard towers, I was ready, every muscle in my body was tensing for the shot. And then I heard those words…

  “You spoiled children think democracy is a God-given right. You expect it, you demand it! Well, now you’re going to get your chance to practice it.”

  His exact words, stamped behind my eyelids for the rest of my life.

  What did he mean?

  We would be the ones to decide who would be punished. Broken up into groups of ten, we would have to vote on which one of us was going to be executed. And then we…the soldiers, we would be the ones to personally murder our friends. They rolled these little pushcarts past us. I can still hear their creaking wheels. They were full of stones, about the size of your hand, sharp and heavy. Some cried out, pleaded with us, begged like children. Some, like Baburin, simply knelt there silently, on this knees, staring right into my face as I brought the rock down into his.

  [She sighs softly, glancing over her shoulder at the one-way glass.]

  Brilliance. Sheer fucking brilliance. Conventional executions might have reinforced discipline, might have restored order from the top down, but by making us all accomplices, they held us together not just by fear, but by guilt as well. We could have said no, could have refused and been shot our
selves, but we didn’t. We went right along with it. We all made a conscious choice and because that choice carried such a high price, I don’t think anyone ever wanted to make another one again. We relinquished our freedom that day, and we were more than happy to see it go. From that moment on we lived in true freedom, the freedom to point to someone else and say “They told me to do it! It’s their fault, not mine.” The freedom, God help us, to say “I was only following orders.”

  BRIDGETOWN, BARBADOS, WEST INDIES FEDERATION

  [Trevor’s Bar personifies the “Wild West Indies,” or, more specifically, each island’s “Special Economic Zone.” This is not a place most people would associate with the order and tranquility of postwar Caribbean life. It is not meant to be. Fenced off from the rest of the island and catering to a culture of chaotic violence and debauchery, the Special Economic Zones are engineered specifically to separate “off-islanders” from their money. My discomfort seems to please T. Sean Collins. The giant Texan slides a shot of “kill-devil” rum in my direction, then swings his massive, boot-clad feet onto the table.]

  They haven’t come up with a name for what I used to do. Not a real one, not yet. “Independent contractor” sounds like I should be layin’ drywall and smearin’ plaster. “Private security” sounds like some dumbass mall guard. “Mercenary” is the closest, I guess, but at the same time, about as far from the real me as you could have gotten. A mercenary sounds like some crazed-out ’Nam vet, all tats and handlestache, humpin’ in some Third World cesspool ’cause he can’t hack it back in the real world. That wasn’t me at all. Yeah, I was a vet, and yeah, I used my training for cash…funny thing about the army, they always promise to teach you “marketable skills,” but they never mention that, by far, there’s nothing more marketable than knowing how to kill some people while keeping others from being killed.