World War Z_ An Oral History of the Zombie War ( PDFDrive )

We started planting our “garden”: shelter stakes with orange Day-Glo tape in rows every ten
meters. They were our range markers, showing us exactly where to zero our sights. For some of
us there was also some light duty like clearing the brush or arranging the ammo crates.
For the rest of us, there was nothing to do except wait, just grab some chow, recharge our camel
packs, or even snag some bag time, if it was possible to sleep. We’d learned a lot since Yonkers.
The brass wanted us rested. The problem was, it gave us all too much time to think.
Did you see the movie, the one Elliot made about us? That scene with the campfire and the
grunts all jawing in this witty dialogue, the stories and the dreams for the future, and even that
guy with the harmonica. Dude, it was so not like that. First of all, it was the middle of the day, no
campfires, no harmonica under the stars, and also everyone was really quiet. You knew what
everyone was thinking though, “What the hell are we doing here?” This was Zack’s house now, and
as far as we were concerned, he could have it. We’d all had plenty of pep talks about “The Future
of the Human Spirit.” We’d seen the president’s speech God knows how many times, but the prez
wasn’t out here on Zack’s front lawn. We had a good thing going behind the Rockies. What the hell
were we doing out here?
Around 1300 hours, the radios started squawking, it was the K-handlers whose dogs had made
contact. We locked and loaded and took our place on the firing line.
That was the centerpiece of our whole new battle doctrine, back into the past like everything
else. We massed in a straight line, two ranks: one active, one reserve. The reserve was so when
anyone in the front rank needed a weapon recharge, their fire wouldn’t be missed on the line.
Theoretically, with everyone either firing or reloading, we could keep Zack falling as long as the
ammo held out.
We could hear the barking, the Ks were bringing them in. We started seeing Gs on the horizon,
hundreds. I started shaking even though it wasn’t the first time I’d had to face Zack since Yonkers.
I’d been in the clean and sweep operations in LA. I’d done my time in the Rockies when the summer
thawed the passes. Each time I got major shakes.
The dogs were recalled, racing behind our lines. We switched over to our Primary Enticement
Mechanism. Every army had one by now. The Brits would use bagpipes, the Chinese used bugles,
the Sou’fricans used to smack their rifles with their assegais 5 and belt out these Zulu war chants.
For us, it was hard-core Iron Maiden. Now, personally, I’ve never been a metal fan. Straight classic
rock’s my thing, and Hendrix’s “Driving South” is about as heavy as I get. But I had to admit,
standing there in that desert wind, with “The Trooper” thumping in my chest, I got it. The PEM
wasn’t really for Zack’s benefit. It was to psych us up, take away some of Zack’s mojo, you know,
“take the piss out,” as the Brits say. Right about the time Dickinson was belting “As you plunge into
a certain death” I was pumped, SIR charged and ready, eyes fixed on this growing, closing horde. I
was, like, “C’mon, Zack, let’s fuckin’ do this!”
Just before they reached the front range marker, the music began to fade. The squad leaders
shouted, “Front rank, ready!” and the first line knelt. Then came the order to “take aim!” and
then, as we all held our breath, as the music clicked off, we heard “FIRE!”
The front rank just rippled, cracking like a SAW on full auto and dropping every G that crossed
the first markers. We had strict orders, only the ones crossing the line. Wait for the others. We’d
trained this way for months. By now it was pure instinct. Sister Montoya raised her weapon above
her head, the signal for an empty mag. We switched positions, I flipped off my safety, and sighted
my first target. She was a noob, 6 couldn’t have been dead more than a year or so. Her dirty blond