World War Z

For the first time in history, we faced an enemy that was actively waging total war. They had no limits of endurance. They would never negotiate, never surrender. They would fight until the very end because, unlike us, every single one of them, every second of every day, was devoted to consuming all life on Earth. That’s the kind of enemy that was waiting for us beyond the Rockies. That’s the kind of war we had to fight.

Denver, Colorado, USA

[We have just finished di

It was kinda like stepping back in time, the new army, I mean. It couldn’t have been any more different from the one I’d fought, and almost died with, at Yonkers. We weren’t mechanized anymore-no tanks, no arty, no tread jobs at all, not even the Bradleys. Those were still in reserve, being modified for when we’d have to take back the cities. No, the only wheeled vehicles we had, the Humvees and a few M-trip-Seven ASVs, were used to carry ammo and stuff. We hoofed it, all the way, marching in column like you see in Civil War paintings. There was a lot of references to “the Blue” versus “the Gray,” mainly because of Zack’s skin color and the shade of our new BDUs. They didn’t bother with camo schemes anymore; in any case, what was the point? And, I guess, navy blue was the cheapest dye they had back then. The BDU itself looked more like a SWAT team’s coverall. It was light and comfortable and interwoven with Kevlar, I think it was Kevlar, bite-proof threads. It had the option of gloves and a hood that would cover your whole face. Later, in urban hand-to-hand, that option saved a lot of lives.

Everything had kind of a retro feel about it. Our Lobos looked like something out of, I don’t know, Lord of the Rings? Standard orders were to use it only when necessary, but, trust me, we made it necessary a lot. It just felt good, you know, swingin’ that solid hunk a’ steel. It made it personal, empowering. You could feel the skull split. A real rush, like you were taking back your life, you know? Not that I minded pulling the trigger.

Our primary weapon was the SIR, standard infantry rifle. The wood furniture made it look like a World War II gun; I guess composite materials were too hard to mass-produce. I’m not sure where the SIR supposedly came from. I’ve heard it was a modcop of the AK. I’ve also heard that it was a stripped-down version of the XM 8, which the army was already pla

The only bells and whistles it had was a conversion kit of extra parts, furniture, and additional barrels of different lengths. You could go long-range sniper, mid range rifle, or close-combat carbine, all in the same hour, and without reaching farther than your ruck. It also had a spike, this little flip-out job, about eight inches long, that you could use in a pinch if your Lobo wasn’t handy. We used to joke “careful, you’ll poke somebody’s eye out,” which, of course, we did plenty. The SIR made a pretty good close combat weapon, even without the spike, and when you add all the other things that made it so awesome, you can see why we always referred to it, respectfully, as “Sir.”

Our staple ammo was the NATO 5.56 “Cherry PIE.” PIE stands for pyro-technically initiated explosive. Outstanding design. It would shatter on entry into Zack’s skull and fragments would fry its brain. No risk of spreading infected gray matter, and no need for wasteful bonfires. On BS duty, you didn’t even have to decap before you buried them. Just dig the trench and roll the whole body in.

Yeah, it was a new army, as much the people as anything else. Recruitment had changed, and being a grunt meant something very different now. You still had the old requirements-physical stamina, mental competence, the motivation and discipline to master difficult challenges in extreme conditions-but all that was mouse farts if you couldn’t hack long-term Z-shock. I saw a lot of good friends just lose it under the strain. Some of them collapsed, some turned their weapons on themselves, some on their buddies. It didn’t have anything to do with being brave or anything like that. I once read this British SAS survival guide that talked all about the “warrior” personality, how your family’s supposed to be emotionally and financially stable, and how you’re not even supposed to be attracted to girls when you’re real young. [Grunts.] Survival guides… [Jerks his hand in a masturbatory movement.]

But the new faces, they could have been from anywhere: your neighbor, your aunt, that geeky substitute teacher, or that fat, lazy slob at the DMV. From former insurance salesmen to a guy who I’m damn sure was Michael Stipe, although I never got him to admit it. I guess it all made sense; anyone who couldn’t roll wouldn’t have made it this far in the first place. Everyone was already a veteran in some sense. My battle buddy, Sister Montoya, fifty-two years old, she’d been a nun, still was I guess. Five three and a buck even, she’d protected her whole Sunday school class for nine days with nothing but a six-foot iron candlestick. I don’t know how she managed to hump that ruck, but she did, without complaining, from our assembly area in Needles, all the way to our contact site just outside of Hope, New Mexico.

Hope. I’m not kidding, the town was actually named Hope.

They say the brass chose it because of the terrain, clear and open with the desert in front and the mountains in back. Perfect, they said, for an opening engagement, and that the name had nothing to do with it. Right.

The brass really wanted this test-op to go smoothly. It’d be the first major ground engagement we’d fought since Yonkers. It was that moment, you know, like, when a lot of different things all come together.

Watershed?

Yeah, I think. All the new people, the new stuff, the new training, the new-plan-everything was supposed to sort of mix together for this one first big kickoff.

We’d encountered a couple dozen Gs en route. Sniffer dogs would find them, and handlers with silenced weapons would drop them. We didn’t want to attract too many till we were set. We wanted this to be on our terms.

We started planting our “garden”: shelter stakes with orange Day-Glo tape in rows every ten meters. They were our range markers, showing us exactly where to zero our sights. For some of us there was also some light duty like clearing the brush or arranging die ammo crates.

For the rest of us, there was nothing to do except wait, just grab some chow, recharge our camel packs, or even snag some bag time, if it was possible to sleep. We’d learned a lot since Yonkers. The brass wanted us rested. The problem was, it gave us all too much time to think.

Did you see the movie, the one Elliot made about us? That scene with the campfire and the grunts all jawing in this witty dialogue, the stories and the dreams for the future, and even that guy with the harmonica. Dude, it was so not like that. First of all, it was the middle of the day, no campfires, no harmonica under the stars, and also everyone was really quiet. You knew what everyone was thinking though, “What the hell are we doing here?” This was Zack’s house now, and as far as we were concerned, he could have it. We’d all had plenty of pep talks about “The Future of the Human Spirit.” We’d seen the president’s speech God knows how many times, but the prez wasn’t out here on Zack’s front lawn. We had a good thing going behind the Rockies. What the hell were we doing out here?