GREATER CHONGQING, THE UNITED FEDERATION OF CHINA
[At its prewar height, this region boasted a population of over
thirty-five million people. Now, there are barely fifty thousand.
Reconstruction funds have been slow to arrive in this part of the
country, the government choosing to concentrate on the more densely
populated coast. There is no central power grid, no running water
besides the Yangtze River. But the streets are clear of rubble and the
local "security council" has prevented any postwar outbreaks.
The chairman of that council is Kwang Jingshu, a medical doctor who,
despite his advanced age and wartime injuries, still manages to make
house calls to all his patients.]
The first outbreak I saw was in a remote village that officially had
no name. The residents called it "New Dachang," but this was
more out of nostalgia than anything else. Their former home, "Old
Dachang," had stood since the period of the Three Kingdoms, with
farms and houses and even trees said to be centuries old. When the
Three Gorges Dam was completed, and reservoir waters began to rise,
much of Dachang had been disassembled, brick by brick, then rebuilt on
higher ground. This New Dachang, however, was not a town anymore, but
a "national historic museum." It must have been a
heartbreaking irony for those poor peasants, to see their town saved
but then only being able to visit it as a tourist. Maybe that is why
some of them chose to name their newly constructed hamlet "New
Dachang" to preserve some connection to their heritage, even if
it was only in name. I personally didn't know that this other New
Dachang existed, so you can imagine how confused I was when the call
The hospital was quiet; it had been a slow night, even for the
increasing number of drunk-driving accidents. Motorcycles were
becoming very popular. We used to say that your Harley-Davidsons
killed more young Chinese than all the GIs in the Korean War. That's
why I was so grateful for a quiet shift. I was tired, my back and feet
ached. I was on my way out to smoke a cigarette and watch the dawn
when I heard my name being paged. The receptionist that night was new
and couldn't quite understand the dialect. There had been an accident,
or an illness. It was an emergency, that part was obvious, and could
we please send help at once.
What could I say? The younger doctors, the kids who think medicine is
just a way to pad their bank accounts, they certainly weren't going to
go help some "nongmin" just for the sake of helping. I guess
I'm still an old revolutionary at heart. "Our duty is to hold
ourselves responsible to the people." Those words still mean
something to me . . . and I tried to remember that as my Deer bounced
and banged over dirt roads the government had promised but never quite
gotten around to paving.
I had a devil of a time finding the place. Officially, it didn't exist
and therefore wasn't on any map. I became lost several times and had
to ask directions from locals who kept thinking I meant the museum
town. I was in an impatient mood by the time I reached the small
collection of hilltop homes. I remember thinking, This had better be
damned serious. Once I saw their faces, I regretted my wish.
There were seven of them, all on cots, all barely conscious. The
villagers had moved them into their new communal meeting hall. The
walls and floor were bare cement. The air was cold and damp. Of course
they're sick, I thought. I asked the villagers who had been taking
care of these people. They said no one, it wasn't "safe." I
noticed that the door had been locked from the outside. The villagers
were clearly terrified. They cringed and whispered; some kept their
distance and prayed. Their behavior made me angry, not at them, you
understand, not as individuals, but what they represented about our
country. After centuries of foreign oppression, exploitation, and
humiliation, we were finally reclaiming our rightful place as
humanity's middle kingdom. We were the world's richest and most
dynamic superpower, masters of everything from outer space to cyber
space. It was the dawn of what the world was finally acknowledging as
"The Chinese Century" and yet so many of us still lived like
these ignorant peasants, as stagnant and superstitious as the earliest
I was still lost in my grand, cultural criticism when I knelt to
examine the first patient. She was running a high fever, forty degrees
centigrade, and she was shivering violently. Barely coherent, she
whimpered slightly when I tried to move her limbs. There was a wound
in her right forearm, a bite mark. As I examined it more closely, I
realized that it wasn't from an animal. The bite radius and teeth
marks had to have come from a small, or possibly young, human being.
Although I hypothesized this to be the source of the infection, the
actual injury was surprisingly clean. I asked the villagers, again,
who had been taking care of these people. Again, they told me no one.
I knew this could not be true. The human mouth is packed with
bacteria, even more so than the most unhygienic dog. If no one had
cleaned this woman's wound, why wasn't it throbbing with infection?
I examined the six other patients. All showed similar symptoms, all
had similar wounds on various parts of their bodies. I asked one man,
the most lucid of the group, who or what had inflicted these injuries.
He told me it had happened when they had tried to subdue
"Who?" I asked.
I found "Patient Zero" behind the locked door of an abandoned
house across town. He was twelve years old. His wrists and feet were
bound with plastic packing twine. Although he'd rubbed off the skin
around his bonds, there was no blood. There was also no blood on his
other wounds, not on the gouges on his legs or arms, or from the large
dry gap where his right big toe had been. He was writhing like an
animal; a gag muffled his growls.
At first the villagers tried to hold me back. They warned me not to
touch him, that he was "cursed." I shrugged them off and
reached for my mask and gloves. The boy's skin was as cold and gray as
the cement on which he lay. I could find neither his heartbeat nor his
pulse. His eyes were wild, wide and sunken back in their sockets. They
remained locked on me like a predatory beast. Throughout the
examination he was inexplicably hostile, reaching for me with his
bound hands and snapping at me through his gag.
His movements were so violent I had to call for two of the largest
villagers to help me hold him down. Initially they wouldn't budge,
cowering in the doorway like baby rabbits. I explained that there was
no risk of infection if they used gloves and masks. When they shook
their heads, I made it an order, even though I had no lawful authority
to do so.
That was all it took. The two oxen knelt beside me. One held the boy's
feet while the other grasped his hands. I tried to take a blood sample
and instead extracted only brown, viscous matter. As I was withdrawing
the needle, the boy began another bout of violent struggling.
One of my "orderlies," the one responsible for his arms, gave
up trying to hold them and thought it might safer if he just braced
them against the floor with his knees. But the boy jerked again and I
heard his left arm snap. Jagged ends of both radius and ulna bones
stabbed through his gray flesh. Although the boy didn't cry out,
didn't even seem to notice, it was enough for both assistants to leap
back and run from the room.
I instinctively retreated several paces myself. I am embarrassed to
admit this; I have been a doctor for most of my adult life. I was
trained and . . . you could even say "raised" by the People's
Liberation Army. I've treated more than my share of combat injuries,
faced my own death on more than one occasion, and now I was scared,
truly scared, of this frail child.
The boy began to twist in my direction, his arm ripped completely
free. Flesh and muscle tore from one another until there was nothing
except the stump. His now free right arm, still tied to the severed
left hand, dragged his body across the floor.
I hurried outside, locking the door behind me. I tried to compose
myself, control my fear and shame. My voice still cracked as I asked
the villagers how the boy had been infected. No one answered. I began
to hear banging on the door, the boy's fist pounding weakly against
the thin wood. It was all I could do not to jump at the sound. I
prayed they would not notice the color draining from my face. I
shouted, as much from fear as frustration, that I had to know what
happened to this child.
A young woman came forward, maybe his mother. You could tell that she
had been crying for days; her eyes were dry and deeply red. She
admitted that it had happened when the boy and his father were
"moon fishing," a term that describes diving for treasure
among the sunken ruins of the Three Gorges Reservoir. With more than
eleven hundred abandoned villages, towns, and even cities, there was
always the hope of recovering something valuable. It was a very common
practice in those days, and also very illegal. She explained that they
weren't looting, that it was their own village, Old Dachang, and they
were just trying to recover some heirlooms from the remaining houses
that hadn't been moved. She repeated the point, and I had to interrupt
her with promises not to inform the police. She finally explained that
the boy came up crying with a bite mark on his foot. He didn't know
what had happened, the water had been too dark and muddy. His father
was never seen again.
I reached for my cell phone and dialed the number of Doctor Gu Wen
Kuei, an old comrade from my army days who now worked at the Institute
of Infectious Diseases at Chongqing University. We exchanged
pleasantries, discussing our health, our grandchildren; it was only
proper. I then told him about the outbreak and listened as he made
some joke about the hygiene habits of hillbillies. I tried to chuckle
along but continued that I thought the incident might be significant.
Almost reluctantly he asked me what the symptoms were. I told him
everything: the bites, the fever, the boy, the arm . . . his face
suddenly stiffened. His smile died.
He asked me to show him the infected. I went back into the meeting
hall and waved the phone's camera over each of the patients. He asked
me to move the camera closer to some of the wounds themselves. I did
so and when I brought the screen back to my face, I saw that his video
image had been cut.
"Stay where you are," he said, just a distant, removed voice
now. "Take the names of all who have had contact with the
infected. Restrain those already infected. If any have passed into
coma, vacate the room and secure the exit." His voice was flat,
robotic, as if he had rehearsed this speech or was reading from
something. He asked me, "Are you armed?" "Why would I
be?" I asked. He told me he would get back to me, all business
again. He said he had to make a few calls and that I should expect
"support" within several hours.
They were there in less than one, fifty men in large army Z-8A
helicopters; all were wearing hazardous materials suits. They said
they were from the Ministry of Health. I don't know who they thought
they were kidding. With their bullying swagger, their intimidating
arrogance, even these backwater bumpkins could recognize the Guoanbu.
Their first priority was the meeting hall. The patients were carried
out on stretchers, their limbs shackled, their mouths gagged. Next,
they went for the boy. He came out in a body bag. His mother was
wailing as she and the rest of the village were rounded up for
"examinations." Their names were taken, their blood drawn. One
by one they were stripped and photographed. The last one to be exposed
was a withered old woman. She had a thin, crooked body, a face with a
thousand lines and tiny feet that had to have been bound when she was
a girl. She was shaking her bony fist at the "doctors."
"This is your punishment!" she shouted. "This is
revenge for Fengdu!"
She was referring to the City of Ghosts, whose temples and shrines
were dedicated to the underworld. Like Old Dachang, it had been an
unlucky obstacle to China's next Great Leap Forward. It had been
evacuated, then demolished, then almost entirely drowned. I've never
been a superstitious person and I've never allowed myself to be hooked
on the opiate of the people. I'm a doctor, a scientist. I believe only
in what I can see and touch. I've never seen Fengdu as anything but a
cheap, kitschy tourist trap. Of course this ancient crone's words had
no effect on me, but her tone, her anger . . . she had witnessed
enough calamity in her years upon the earth: the warlords, the
Japanese, the insane nightmare of the Cultural Revolution . . . she
knew that another storm was coming, even if she didn't have the
education to understand it.
My colleague Dr. Kuei had understood all too well. He'd even risked
his neck to warn me, to give me enough time to call and maybe alert a
few others before the "Ministry of Health" arrived. It was
something he had said . . . a phrase he hadn't used in a very long
time, not since those "minor" border clashes with the Soviet
Union. That was back in 1969. We had been in an earthen bunker on our
side of the Ussuri, less than a kilometer downriver from Chen Bao. The
Russians were preparing to retake the island, their massive artillery
hammering our forces.
Gu and I had been trying to remove shrapnel from the belly of this
soldier not much younger than us. The boy's lower intestines had been
torn open, his blood and excrement were all over our gowns. Every
seven seconds a round would land close by and we would have to bend
over his body to shield the wound from falling earth, and every time
we would be close enough to hear him whimper softly for his mother.
There were other voices, too, rising from the pitch darkness just
beyond the entrance to our bunker, desperate, angry voices that
weren't supposed to be on our side of the river. We had two
infantrymen stationed at the bunker's entrance.
From the Hardcover edition.
Excerpted from "World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War" by Max Brooks. Copyright © 2007 by Max Brooks. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.