World War Z

“What charges?” I asked. “What order?”

“To blow the pass, you arse head!” he yelled, motioning to what I now-recognized as a detonator on his lap. “How the hell else are we going to stop them’”

I knew, vaguely, that our retreat into the Himalayas had something to do with some kind of master plan, and that part of that plan meant closing all the mountain passes to the living dead. I never dreamed, however, that I would be such a vital participant! For the sake of civil conversation, I will not repeat my profane reaction to Mukherjee, nor Mukherjee’s equally profane reaction when we arrived at the pass and found it still full of refugees.

“It’s supposed to be clear!” he shouted. “No more refugees!”

We noticed a soldier from the Rashtriya Rifles, the outfit that was supposed to be securing the road’s mountain entrance, come ru

Mukherjee keyed his radio and reported that the road was still highly active. A voice came back to him, a high-pitched, frantic younger voice of an officer screaming that his orders were to blow the road no matter how-many people were on it. Mukherjee responded angrily that he had to wait till it was clear. If we blew it now, not only would we be sending dozens of people hurtling to their deaths, but we would be trapping thousands on the other side. The voice shot back that the road would never be clear, that the only thing behind those people was a raging swarm of God knows how-many million zombies. Mukherjee answered that he would blow it when the zombies got here, and not a second before. He wasn’t about to commit murder no matter what some pissant lieutenant…

But then Mukherjee stopped in midsentence and looked at something over my head. I whipped around, and suddenly found myself staring into the face of General Raj’Singh! I don’t know where he came from, why he was there … to this day no one believes me, not that he wasn’t there, but that I was. I was inches away from him, from the Tiger of Delhi! I’ve heard that people tend to view those they respect as appearing physically taller than they actually are. In my mind, he appears as a virtual giant. Even with his torn uniform, his bloody turban, the patch on his right eye and the bandage on his nose (one of his men had smashed him in the face to get him on the last chopper out of Gandhi Park). General Raj-Singh…

[Khan takes a deep breath, his chest filling with pride.]

“Gentlemen,” he began … he called us “Gentlemen” and explained, very carefully, that the road had to be destroyed immediately. The air force, what was left of it, had its own orders concerning the closure of all mountain passes. At this moment, a single Shamsher fighter bomber was already on station above our position. If we found ourselves unable, or unwilling, to accomplish our mission, then the Jaguar’s pilot was ordered to execute “Shiva’s Wrath.” “Do you know what that means?” Raj-Singh asked. Maybe he thought I was too young to understand, or maybe he must have guessed, somehow, that I was Muslim, but even if I’d known absolutely nothing about the Hindu deity of destruction, everyone in uniform had heard rumors about the “secret” code name for the use of thermonuclear weapons.

Wouldn’t that have destroyed the pass?

Yes, and half the mountain as well! Instead of a narrow choke point hemmed in by sheer cliff walls, you would have had little more than a massive, gently sloping ramp. The whole point of destroying these roads was to create a barrier inaccessible to the living dead, and now some ignorant air force general with an atomic erection was going to give them the perfect entrance right into the safe zone]

Mukherjee gulped, not sure of what to do, until the Tiger held out his hand for the detonator. Ever the hero, he was now willing to accept the burden of mass murderer. The sergeant handed it over, close to tears. General Raj-Singh thanked him, thanked us both, whispered a prayer, then pressed his thumbs down on the firing buttons. Nothing happened, he tried again, no response. He checked the batteries, all the co

This is the end, I thought, we’re all going to die. All I could think of was getting out of there, far enough away to maybe avoid the nuclear blast. I still feel guilty about those thoughts, caring only for myself in a moment like that.

Thank God for General Raj-Singh. He reacted… exactly how you would expect a living legend to react. He ordered us to get out of here, save ourselves and get to Shimla, then Turned and ran right into crowd. Mukherjee and I looked at each other, without much hesitation, I’m happy to say, and took oft after him.

Now we wanted to be heroes, too, to protect our general and shield him from the crowd. What a joke. We never even saw him once the masses enveloped us like a raging river. I was pushed and shoved from all directions. I don’t know when I was punched in the eye. I shouted that I needed to get past, that this was army business. No one listened. I fired several shots in the air. No one noticed. I considered actually firing into the crowd. I was becoming as desperate as them. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mukherjee go tumbling over the side with another man still fighting for his rifle. I turned to tell General Raj-Singh but couldn’t find him in the crowd. I called his name, tried to spot him above the other heads. I climbed onto the roof of a microbus, trying to get my bearings. Then the wind came up; it brought the stink and moan whipping through the valley. In front of me, about half a kilometer ahead, the crowd began ru

The microbus shook and I fell. First I was floating on a sea of human bodies, then suddenly I was beneath them, shoes and bare feet trampling on my flesh. I felt my ribs crack, I coughed and tasted blood. I pulled myself under the microbus. My body was aching, burning. I couldn’t speak. I could barely see. I heard the sound of the approaching zombies. I guessed that they couldn’t be more than two hundred meters away I swore I wouldn’t die like the others, all those victims torn to pieces, that cow I saw struggling and bleeding on the banks of the Satluj River in Rupnagar. I fumbled for my sidearm, my hand wouldn’t work. I cursed and cried. I thought I’d be religious at that point, but I was just so scared and angry I started beating my head against the underside of the van. I thought if I hit it hard enough I could bash in my own skull. Suddenly there was a deafening roar and the ground rose up underneath me. A wave of screams and moans mixed with this powerful blast of pressurized dust. My face slammed into the machinery above, knocking me cold.

The first thing I remember when I came to was a very faint sound. At first I thought it was water. It sounded like a fast drip… tap-tap-tap, like that. The tap became clearer, and I suddenly became aware of two other sounds, the crackle of my radio… how that wasn’t smashed I’ll never know… and the ever-present howling of the living dead. I crawled out from under the microbus. At least my legs were still working well enough to stand. I realized that I was alone, no refugees, no General Raj-Singh. I was standing among a collection of discarded personal belongings in the middle of a deserted mountain path. In front of me was a charred cliff wall. Beyond it was the other side of the severed road.