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

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.
Maybe I was a mercenary, but you’d never know it to look at me. I was clean-cut, nice car, nice
house, even a housekeeper who came in once a week. I had plenty of friends, marriage prospects,
and my handicap at the country club was almost as good as the pros. Most importantly, I worked
for a company no different from any other before the war. There was no cloak and dagger, no
back rooms and midnight envelopes. I had vacation days and sick days, full medical and a sweet
dental package. I paid my taxes, too much; I paid into my IRA. I could have worked overseas; Lord
knows there was plenty of demand, but after seeing what my buddies went through in the last
brushfire, I said, screw it, let me guard some fat CEO or worthless, dumb celebrity. And that’s
where I found myself when the Panic hit.
You don’t mind if I don’t mention any names, ’kay? Some of these people are still alive, or their
estates are still active, and…can you believe, they’re still threatening to sue. After all that’s gone
down? Okay, so I can’t name names or places, but figure it’s an island…a big island…a long island,
right next to Manhattan. Can’t sue me for that, right?
My client, I’m not sure what he really did. Something in entertainment, or high finance. Beats
me. I think he might have even been one of the senior shareholders in my firm. Whatever, he had
bucks, lived in this amazing pad by the beach.
Our client liked to know people who were known by all. His plan was to provide safety for those
who could raise his image during and after the war, playing Moses to the scared and famous. And
you know what, they fell for it. The actors, and singers, and rappers and pro athletes, and just the
professional faces, like the ones you see on talk shows or reality shows, or even that little rich,
spoiled, tired-looking whore who was famous for just being a rich, spoiled, tired-looking whore.
There was that record mogul guy with the big ’ole diamond earrings. He had this tricked-out AK
with a grenade launcher. He loved to talk about how it was an exact replica of the one from
Scarface. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Señor Montana had used a sixteen A-1.
There was the political comedy guy, you know, the one with the show. He was snorting blow
between the air bags of this teeny Thai stripper while spewing about how what was happening
wasn’t just about the living versus the dead, it would send shock waves through every facet of our
society: social, economic, political, even environmental. He said that, subconsciously, everyone
already knew the truth during the “Great Denial,” and that’s why they wigged out so hard when
the story was finally broken. It all actually kinda made sense, until he started spewing about high
fructose corn syrup and the feminization of America.
Crazy, I know, but you kinda expected those people to be there, at least I did. What I didn’t
expect was all their “people.” Every one of them, no matter who they were or what they did, had
to have, at least, I don’t know how many stylists and publicists and personal assistants. Some of
them, I think, were pretty cool, just doing it for the money, or because they figured they’d be safe
there. Young people just trying to get a leg up. Can’t fault them for that. Some of the others