Look a Book: The Day of the Dead

When I realised that I was going to spend this Saturday – Halloween – reading the last 40 pages of a truly amazing book, I was delighted. I have never looked forward to the 31st October so much.

Yes, Emily Fabpants has spent the past few weeks rabidly raving about this book, as spit bubbles popped on her lips.


World War Z
By Max Brooks

World War Z is a Zombie Novel. Today I read the final words 'I love you, Mom' (not part of the story) and I could read it all over again.

At this point, you may have an image in your mind that looks a little like the Spooksville book cover for Christopher Pike’s ‘Attack of the Killer Crabs’. Yes, such books and the B-Movie live in the symbiotic bond of ham-fisted horror. The zombie genre, living within this sphere, has seen its fair share of low-budget scripts and piss poor performances.

Don't knock it though. In a total role reversal, Peter Jackson cut his teeth on zombies, and found vivacity. Without Bad Taste or Brain Dead, the epic trilogy that is Lord of the Rings would not exist.

Perhaps President Obama would not be president today if George A. Romero hadn't given Duane Jones the lead role in Night of the Living Dead. Good old George cast a 'black man' - Duane - as THE HERO in a predominantly 'white' film, at a time when it wasn't done. 'Controversial', they cried. Romero wasn't trying to change the world or grab the headlines, he cast Jones because he "gave the best audition". It's a brilliant film, a work of black and white brilliance at many levels.

World War Z takes the exceptional works of George A. Romero to the next level. Max Brooks cites the godfather of zombie as his inspiration.

Perhaps the genre has a new daddy. The depth of World War Z is stunning. From global politics, landscapes and cultures, to the detail of weaponry and war tactics.

World War Z starts in China. Probably.

The dead rise and the country keeps stum. To justify the increase in military activities, the Chinese government invents a ruse (a crisis in Taiwan). Before they know it, the black market organ trade has taken their secret overseas. Patients come round from operations with new organs and a new disease. Soon, the world is in zombie crisis. Humankind has to fight for its very existence and its enemy is the dead of its kind.

World War Z takes the form of post-war interviews that span the globe. The chapters portray the worst war that humanity has ever encountered. Interviewees provide personal accounts of how they and their countries fought, or didn't fight back, and how in the end they won.

Some countries create safe zones early on (Israel is a pioneer) and others, who leave it almost too late, have to force the issue. Many use refugees as bait, while the young or the privileged retreat.

Some go it alone, fleeing north, to where the zombies are frozen, or by making a fortress of their own. The Parisians go underground. Many don't have the means for survival and die. Some eat the weak that have died. Some live to see another day.

The book leaves the reader with a sea full of zombies, moaning in its depths. In Iceland and colder regions, the undead lie dormant in snow. When the warm weather comes, our species will be ready.

When hell is full, the dead will not walk the earth. Earth does not like being a grotty motel for bad souls. Hotel Hell will have to expand.

If you don't like reading novels, the audio book won an Audie Award in 2007. You may recognise names in the cast:
Alan Alda, Carl Reiner, Jurgen Prochnow, Walleed Zuiater, Dean Edwards, Michelle Kholos, Maz Jobrani, Mark Hamill, Henry Rollins, Eamonn Walker, Ajay Naidu, John Turturro, Rob Reiner, Joy O'Sanders, Dennis Boutsikaris, Becky Ann Baker, Steve Park, Frank Kamai & John McElroy.


Excerpt 1:

TOPEKA, KANSAS, USA

[Sharon could be considered beautiful by almost any standard—with long red hair, sparkling green eyes, and the body of a dancer or a prewar supermodel. She also has the mind of a four-year-old girl.

We are at the Rothman Rehabilitation Home for Feral Children. Doctor Roberta Kelner,
Sharon’s caseworker, describes her condition as “lucky.” “At least she has language skills, a cohesive thought process,” she explains. “It’s rudimentary, but at least it’s fully functional.”

Doctor Kelner is eager for the interview, but Doctor Sommers, Rothman’s program director, is not. Funding has always been spotty for this program, and the present administration is threatening to close it down altogether.

Sharon is shy at first. She will not shake my hand and seldom makes eye contact. Although Sharon was found in the ruins of Wichita, there is no way of knowing where her story originally occurred.]

We were in church, Mommy and me. Daddy told us that he would come find us. Daddy had to go do something. We had to wait for him in church.

Everybody was there. They all had stuff. They had cereal, and water, and juice, and sleeping bags and flashlights and… [she mimes a rifle] . Mrs. Randolph had one. She wasn’t supposed to. They were dangerous. She told me they were dangerous. She was Ashley’s mommy. Ashley was my friend. I asked her where was Ashley. She started to cry. Mommy told me not to ask her about Ashley and told Mrs. Randolph that she was sorry. Mrs. Randolph was dirty, she had red and brown on her dress. She was fat. She had big, soft arms.

There were other kids, Jill and Abbie, and other kids. Mrs. McGraw was watching them. They had crayons. They were coloring on the wall. Mommy told me to go play with them. She told me it was okay. She said Pastor Dan said it was okay.

Pastor Dan was there, he was trying to make people listen to him. “Please everyone…” [she mimics a deep, low voice] “please stay calm, the ‘thorties’ are coming, just stay calm and wait for the ‘thorties.’”

No one was listening to him. Everyone was talking, nobody was sitting. People were trying to talk on their things [mimes holding a cell phone] , they were angry at their things, throwing them, and saying bad words. I felt bad for Pastor Dan. [She mimics the sound of a siren.] Outside. [She does it again, starting soft, then growing, then fading out again multiple times.]

Mommy was talking to Mrs. Cormode and other mommies. They were fighting. Mommy was getting mad. Mrs. Cormode kept saying [in an angry drawl] , “Well what if? What else can you do?” Mommy was shaking her head. Mrs. Cormode was talking with her hands. I didn’t like Mrs. Cormode. She was Pastor Dan’s wife. She was bossy and mean.

Somebody yelled…“Here they come!” Mommy came and picked me up. They took our bench and put it next to the door. They put all the benches next to the door. “Quick!” “Jam the door!” [She mimics several different voices.] “I need a hammer!” “Nails!” “They’re in the parking lot!” “They’re coming this way!” [She turns to Doctor Kelner.] Can I?

[Doctor Sommers looks unsure. Doctor Kelner smiles and nods. I later learn that the room is soundproofed for this reason.]

[Sharon mimics the moan of a zombie. It is undoubtedly the most realistic I have ever heard. Clearly, by their discomfort, Sommers and Kelner agree.]

They were coming. They came bigger. [Again she moans. Then follows up by pounding her right fist on the table.] They wanted to come in. [Her blows are powerful, mechanical.] People screamed. Mommy hugged me tight. “It’s okay.” [Her voice softens as she begins to stroke her own hair.] “I won’t let them get you. Shhhh….”

[Now she bangs both fists on the table, her strikes becoming more chaotic as if to simulate multiple ghouls.] “Brace the door!” “Hold it! Hold it!” [She simulates the sound of shattering glass.] The windows broke, the windows in the front next to the door. The lights got black. Grown-ups got scared. They screamed.

[Her voice returns to her mother’s.] “Shhhh…baby. I won’t let them get you.” [Her hands go from her hair to her face, gently stroking her forehead and cheeks. Sharon gives Kelner a questioning look. Kelner nods. Sharon’s voice suddenly simulates the sound of something large breaking, a deep phlegm-filled rumble from the bottom of her throat.] “They’re coming in! Shoot ’em, shoot ’em!” [She makes the sound of gunfire then…] “I won’t let them get you, I won’t let them get you.” [Sharon suddenly looks away, over my shoulder to something that isn’t there.] “The children! Don’t let them get the children!” That was Mrs. Cormode. “Save the children! Save the children!” [Sharon makes more gunshots. She balls her hands into a large double fist, bringing it down hard on an invisible form. ] Now the kids started crying. [She simulates stabbing, punching, striking with objects.] Abbie cried hard. Mrs. Cormode picked her up. [She mimes lifting something, or someone, up and swinging them against the wall.] And then Abbie stopped. [She goes back to stroking her own face, her mother’s voice has become harder.] “Shhh…it’s okay, baby, it’s okay…” [Her hands move down from her face to her throat, tightening into a strangling grip.] “I won’t let them get you. I WON’T LET THEM GET YOU!”

[Sharon begins to gasp for air.]

[Doctor Sommers makes a move to stop her. Doctor Kelner puts up a hand. Sharon suddenly ceases, throwing her arms out to the sound of a gunshot.]

Warm and wet, salty in my mouth, stinging my eyes. Arms picked me up and carried me. [She gets up from the table, mimicking a motion close to a football.] Carried me into the parking lot. “Run, Sharon, don’t stop!” [This is a different voice now, not her mother’s.] “Just run, run-run-run!” They pulled her away from me. Her arms let me go. They were big, soft arms.


Excerpt 2:

SAND LAKES PROVINCIA LWILDERNESS PARK, MANITOBA, CANADA

I was a pretty heavy kid. I never played sports, I lived on fast food and snacks. I was only a little bit thinner when we arrived in August. By November, I was like a skeleton. Mom and Dad didn’t look much better. Dad’s tummy was gone, Mom had these narrow cheekbones. They were fighting a lot, fighting about everything. That scared me more than anything. They’d never raised their voices at home. They were schoolteachers, “progressives.” There might have been a tense, quiet dinner every now and then, but nothing like this. They went for each other every chance they had. One time, around Thanksgiving…I couldn’t get out of my sleeping bag. My belly was swollen and I had these sores on my mouth and nose. There was this smell coming from the neighbor’s RV. They were cooking something, meat, it smelled really good. Mom and Dad were outside arguing. Mom said “it” was the only way. I didn’t know what “it” was. She said “it” wasn’t “that bad” because the neighbors, not us, had been the ones to actually “do it.” Dad said that we weren’t going to stoop to that level and that Mom should be ashamed of herself. Mom really laid into Dad, screeching that it was all his fault that we were here, that I was dying. Mom told him that a real man would know what to do. She called him a wimp and said he wanted us to die so then he could run away and live like the “faggot” she always knew he was. Dad told her to shut the fuck up. Dadnever swore. I heard something, a crack from outside. Mom came back in, holding a clump of snow over her right eye. Dad followed her. He didn’t say anything. He had this look on his face I’d never seen before, like he was a different person. He grabbed my survival radio, the one people’d try to buy…or steal, for a long time, and went back out toward the RV. He came back ten minutes later, without the radio but with a big bucket of this steaming hot stew. It was so good! Mom told me not to eat too fast. She fed me in little spoonfuls. She looked relieved. She was crying a little. Dad still had that look. The look I had myself in a few months, when Mom and Dad both got sick and I had to feed them.

[I kneel to examine the bone pile. They have all been broken, the marrow extracted.]

Winter really hit us in early December. The snow was over our heads, literally, mountains of it, thick and gray from the pollution. The camp got silent. No more fights, no more shooting. By Christmas Day there was plenty of food.

[She holds up what looks like a miniature femur. It has been scraped clean by a knife.]

They say eleven million people died that winter, and that’s just in North America. That doesn’t count the other places: Greenland, Iceland, Scandinavia. I don’t want to think about Siberia, all those refugees from southern China, the ones from Japan who’d never been outside a city, and all those poor people from India. That was the first Gray Winter, when the filth in the sky started changing the weather. They say that a part of that filth, I don’t know how much, was ash from human remains.

[She plants a marker above the pit.]

It took a lot of time, but eventually the sun did come out, the weather began to warm, the snow finally began to melt. By mid-July, spring was finally here, and so were the living dead.

[One of the other team members calls us over. A zombie is half buried, frozen from the waist down in the ice. The head, arms, and upper torso are very much alive, thrashing and moaning, and trying to claw toward us.]

Why do they come back after freezing? All human cells contain water, right? And when that water freezes, it expands and bursts the cell walls. That’s why you can’t just freeze people in suspended animation, so then why does it work for the living dead?

[The zombie makes one great lunge in our direction; its frozen lower torso begins to snap. Jesika raises her weapon, a long iron crowbar, and casually smashes the creature’s skull.]


Excerpt 3:

UDAIPUR LAKE PALACE, LAKE PICHOLA, RAJASTHAN, INDIA
...I remember the monkeys, hundreds of them, climbing and skittering among the vehicles, even over the tops of people’s heads. I’d watched them as far back as Chandigarh, leaping from roofs and balconies as the living dead filled the street. I remember them scattering, chattering, scrambling straight up telephone poles to escape the zombies’ grasping arms. Some didn’t even wait to be attacked; they knew. And now they were here, on this narrow, twisting Himalayan goat track. They called it a road, but even in peacetime it had been a notorious death trap. Thousands of refugees were streaming past, or climbing over the stalled and abandoned vehicles. People were still trying to struggle with suitcases, boxes; one man was stubbornly holding on to the monitor for a desktop PC. A monkey landed on his head, trying to use it as a stepping-stone, but the man was too close to the edge and the two of them went tumbling over the side. It seemed like every second someone would lose their footing. There were just too many people. The road didn’t even have a guardrail. I saw a whole bus go over, I don’t even know how, it wasn’t even moving. Passengers were climbing out of the windows because the doors of the bus had been jammed by foot traffic. One woman was halfway out the window when the bus tipped over. Something was in her arms, something clutched tightly to her. I tell myself that it wasn’t moving, or crying, that it was just a bundle of clothes. No one within arm’s reach tried to help her. No one even looked, they just kept streaming by. Sometimes when I dream about that moment, I can’t tell the difference between them and the monkeys.


Excerpt 4:

KYOTO, JAPAN
...I had to get out of this building, get out of the city, and hopefully try to find a way to get out of Japan. I didn’t have a fully thought-out plan yet. I just knew I had to keep going, one floor at a time, until I reached the street. I figured stopping at a few of the apartments would give me a chance to gather supplies, and as dangerous as my sheet-rope method was, it couldn’t be any worse than the siafu that would almost certainly be lurking in the building’s hallways and stairwells.

Wouldn’t it be more dangerous once you reached the streets?

No, safer. [Catches my expression.] No, honestly. That was one of the things I’d learned online. The living dead were slow and easy to outrun or even outwalk. Indoors, I might run the risk of being trapped in some narrow choke point, but out in the open, I had infinite options. Better still, I’d learned from online survivor reports that the chaos of a full-blown outbreak could actually work to one’s advantage. With so many other frightened, disorganized humans to distract the siafu, why would they even notice me? As long as I watched my step, kept up a brisk pace, and didn’t have the misfortune to be hit by a fleeing motorist or stray bullet, I figured I had a pretty good chance of navigating my way through the chaos on the streets below.


Excerpt 5:

QUEBEC, CANADA
[The small farmhouse has no wall, no bars on the windows, and no lock on the door. When I ask the owner about his vulnerability he simply chuckles and resumes his lunch. Andre Renard, brother of the legendary war hero Emil Renard, has requested that I keep his exact location secret. “I don’t care if the dead find me,” he says without feeling, “but I care very little for the living.” The former French national immigrated to this place after the official end of hostilities in western Europe. Despite numerous invitations from the French government, he has not returned.]

Everyone else is a liar, everyone who claims that their campaign was “the hardest of the entire war.” All those ignorant peacocks who beat their chests and brag about “mountain warfare” or “jungle warfare” or “urban warfare.” Cities, oh how they love to brag about cities! “Nothing more terrifying than fighting in a city!” Oh really? Try underneath one.

Do you know why the Paris skyline was devoid of skyscrapers, I mean the prewar, proper Paris skyline? Do you know why they stuck all those glass and steel monstrosities out in La Defense, so far from the city center? Yes, there’s aesthetics, a sense of continuity and civic pride…not like that architectural mongrel called London. But the truth, the logical, practical, reason for keeping Paris free from American-style monoliths, is that the earth beneath their feet is simply too tunneled to support it.

There are Roman tombs, quarries that supplied limestone for much of the city, even World War II bunkers used by the Resistance andyes, therewas a Resistance! Then there is the modern Metro, the telephone lines, the gas mains, the water pipes…and through it all, you have the catacombs. Roughly six million bodies were buried there, taken from the prerevolution cemeteries, where corpses were just tossed in like rubbish. The catacombs contained entire walls of skulls and bones arranged in macabre patterns. It was even functional in places where interlocking bones held back mounds of loose remains behind them. The skulls always seemed to be laughing at me.

I don’t think I can blame the civilians who tried to survive in that subterranean world. They didn’t have the civilian survival manual back then, they didn’t have Radio Free Earth. It was the Great Panic. Maybe a few souls who thought they knew those tunnels decided to make a go of it, a few more followed them, then a few more. The word spread, “it’s safe underground.” A quarter million in all, that’s what the bone counters have determined, two hundred and fifty thousand refugees. Maybe if they had been organized, thought to bring food and tools, even had enough sense to seal the entrances behind them and make damn sure those coming in weren’t infected…

How can anyone claim that their experience can compare to what we endured? The darkness and the stink…we had almost no night vision goggles, just one pair per platoon, and that’s if you were lucky. Spare batteries were in short supply for our electric torches, too. Sometimes there was only one working unit for an entire squad, just for the point man, cutting the darkness with a red-coated beam.

The air was toxic with sewage, chemicals, rotting flesh…the gas masks were a joke, most of the filters had long expired. We wore anything we could find, old military models, or firefighting hoods that covered your entire head, made you sweat like a pig, made you deaf as well as blind. You never knew where you were, staring through that misty visor, hearing the muffled voices of your squad mates, the crackle of your radioman.

We had to use hardwired sets, you see, because airwave transmissions were too unreliable. We used old telephone wire, copper, not fiber optic. We would just rip it off the conduits and keep massive rolls with us to extend our range. It was the only way to keep in contact, and, most of the time, the only way to keep from becoming lost.

It was so easy to become lost. All the maps were prewar and didn’t take into account the modifications the survivors had made, all the interconnecting tunnels and alcoves, the holes in the floor that would suddenly open up in front of you. You would lose your way, at least once a day, sometimes more, and then have to trace your way back down the communications wire, check your location on the map, and try to figure out what had gone wrong. Sometimes it was only a few minutes, sometimes hours, or even days.

When another squad was being attacked, you would hear their cries over the radio or echoing through the tunnels. The acoustics were evil; they taunted you. Screams and moans came from every direction. You never knew where they were coming from. At least with the radio, you could try, maybe, to get a fix on your comrades’ position. If they weren’t panicked, if they knew where they were, if you knew where you were…

The running: you dash through the passageways, bash your head on the ceiling, crawl on your hands and knees, praying to the Virgin with all your might for them to hold for just a little longer. You get to their position, find it is the wrong one, an empty chamber, and the screams for help are still a long way off.

And when you arrive, maybe to find nothing but bones and blood. Maybe you are lucky to find the zombies still there, a chance for vengeance…if it has taken a long time to reach them, that vengeance must now include your reanimated friends. Close combat. Close like so…
[He leans across the table, pressing his face inches away from mine.]

Download Word War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War in pdf format.

Fabpants Recommends:
A happy Halloween. I'm going to watch The Beach of the Dead : Brighton's infamous Zombie Walk as it sluggishly trails from Brighton Station to Brighton Beach.

I also recommend watching one of the great zombie flicks. If you are looking for a twenty-first century release, I'd try one of these.

Dawn of the Dead (2004)
An excellent remake of George A. Romero's 1978 classic. I watched this twice at the cinema.

Fido (2006)
The story of a boy and his zombie. Humans have survived a “zombie war” (see above!), and have domesticated zombies, making them household slaves. Brilliant.

Zombieland (2009)
A fantastically funny film. Zombieland stars a college student with an anxiety disorder and a set of rules reminiscent of The Zombie Survival Guide (another Max Brooks classic). He teams up with a harden zombie slayer (Woody Harrelson) with an inclination towards Twinkies. The Bill Murray interlude is brilliant.

Finally, I found this on the
Indie-MP3.co.uk blog this week. It's a girl loves zombie track. How apt.

Download MP3: The Besties – Zombie Song (courtesy of indiemp3couk)