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

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 ourselves, 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.]