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

struck the stone, if the stone was dry, if you got a spark…entire tunnels would catch, explosions
that buried men alive, or fireballs that melted their masks right to their faces. Hand to hand is
always better. Here…
[He rises from the table to show me something on his mantelpiece. The
weapon’s handle is encased in a semicircular steel ball. Protruding from this ball
are two 8-inch steel spikes at right angles from each other.]
You see why, eh? No room to swing a blade. Quick, through the eye, or over the top of the head.
[He demonstrates with a quick punch and stab combination.]
My own design, a modern version of my great-grandfather’s at Verdun, eh? You know
Verdun—“On ne passé pas”—They shall not pass!
[He resumes his lunch.]
No room, no warning, suddenly they are upon you, perhaps right in front of your eyes, or
grabbing from a side passage you didn’t know was there. Everyone was armored in some
way…chain mail or heavy leather…almost always it was too heavy, too suffocating, wet leather
jackets and trousers, heavy metal chain-link shirts. You try to fight, you are already exhausted,
men would tear off their masks, gasping for air, inhaling the stink. Many died before you could get
them to the surface.
I used greaves, protection here (gestures to his forearms) and gloves, chain-covered leather,
easy to remove when not in combat. They were my own design. We didn’t have the American battle
uniforms, but we did have your marsh covers, the long, high waterproof boots with the bite-proof
fiber sewn into the lining. We needed those.
The water was high that summer; the rains were coming hard and the Seine was a raging
torrent. It was always wet. There was rot between your fingers, your toes, in your crotch. The
water was up to your ankles almost all the time, sometimes up to your knees or waist. You would
be on point, walking, or crawling—sometimes we had to crawl in the stinking fluid up to our elbows.
And suddenly the ground would just fall away. You would splash, headfirst, into one of those
unmapped holes. You only had a few seconds to right yourself before your gas mask flooded. You
kicked and thrashed, your comrades would grab you and haul fast. Drowning was the least of your
worries. Men would be splashing, struggling to stay afloat with all that heavy gear, and suddenly
their eyes would bulge, and you’d hear their muffled cries. You might feel the moment they
attacked: the snap or tear and suddenly you fall over with the poor bastard on top of you. If he
wasn’t wearing the marsh covers…a foot is gone, the whole leg; if he had been crawling and went