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

[Jesika Hendricks gestures to the expanse of subarctic wasteland. The natural
beauty has been replaced by wreckage: abandoned vehicles, debris, and human
corpses remain partially frozen into the gray snow and ice. Originally from
Waukesha, Wisconsin, the now naturalized Canadian is part of this region’s
Wilderness Restoration Project. Along with several hundred other volunteers,
she has come here every summer since the end of official hostilities. Although
WRP claims to have made substantial progress, none can claim to see any end in
sight.]
I don’t blame them, the government, the people who were supposed to protect us. Objectively, I
guess I can understand. They couldn’t have everyone following the army west behind the Rocky
Mountains. How were they going to feed all of us, how were they going to screen us, and how could
they ever hope to stop the armies of undead that almost certainly would have been following us? I
can understand why they would want to divert as many refugees north as possible. What else could
they do, stop us at the Rockies with armed troops, gas us like the Ukrainians? At least if we went
north, we might have a chance. Once the temperature dropped and the undead froze, some us
might be able to survive. That was happening all around the rest of the world, people fleeing north
hoping to stay alive until winter came. No, I don’t blame them for wanting to divert us, I can
forgive that. But the irresponsible way they did it, the lack of vital information that would have
helped so many to stay alive…that I can never forgive.
It was August, two weeks after Yonkers and just three days after the government had started
withdrawing west. We hadn’t had too many outbreaks in our neighborhood. I’d only seen one, a
collection of six feeding on a homeless man. The cops had put them down quickly. It happened
three blocks from our house and that was when my father decided to leave.
We were in the living room; my father was learning how to load his new rifle while Mom finished
nailing up the windows. You couldn’t find a channel with anything but zombie news, either live
images, or recorded footage from Yonkers. Looking back, I still can’t believe how unprofessional
the news media was. So much spin, so few hard facts. All those digestible sound bites from an army
of “experts” all contradicting one another, all trying to seem more “shocking” and “in depth” than
the last one. It was all so confusing, nobody seemed to know what to do. The only thing any of them
could agree on was that all private citizens should “go north.” Because the living dead freeze solid,
extreme cold is our only hope. That’s all we heard. No more instructions on where to head north,
what to bring with us, how to survive, just that damn catchphrase you’d hear from every talking
head, or just crawling over and over across the bottom of the TV. “Go north. Go north. Go north.”
“That’s it,” Dad said, “we’re getting out of here tonight and heading north.” He tried to sound
determined, slapping his rifle. He’d never touched a gun in his life. He was a gentleman in the most
literal sense—he was a gentle man. Short, bald, a pudgy face that turned red when he laughed, he
was the king of the bad jokes and cheesy one-liners. He always had something for you, a
compliment or a smile, or a little extension to my allowance that Mom wasn’t supposed to know
about. He was the good cop in the family, he left all the big decisions to Mom.
Now Mom tried to argue, tried to make him see reason. We lived above the snowline, we had all
we needed. Why trek into the unknown when we could just stock up on supplies, continue to fortify
the house, and just wait until the first fall frost? Dad wouldn’t hear it. We could be dead by the fall,
we could be dead by next week! He was so caught up in the Great Panic. He told us it would be like
an extended camping trip. We’d live on mooseburgers and wild berry desserts. He promised to