David Forbes' Interview

PROVINCE OF BOHEMIA, THE EUROPEAN UNION

 [It is called Kost, “the Bone,” and what it lacks in beauty it more
than makes up for in strength. Appearing to grow out of its solid rock
foundation, this fourteenth-century Gothic “Hrad” casts an intimidating
shadow over the Plakanek Valley, an image David Allen Forbes is keen to
capture with his pencil and paper. This will be his second book, Castles
 of the Zombie War: The Continent. The Englishman sits under a tree, his
 patchwork clothing and long Scottish sword already adding to this
Arthurian setting. He abruptly switches gears as I arrive, from serene
artist to painfully nervous storyteller.]

 When I say that the New World doesn’t have our history of fixed
fortifications, I’m only referring to North America. There are the
Spanish coastal fortresses, naturally, along the Caribbean, and the ones
 we and the French built in the Lesser Antilles. Then there are the Inca
 ruins in the Andes, although they never experienced direct sieges. 1
Also, when I say “North America,” that does not include the Mayan and
Aztec ruins in Mexico—that business with the Battle of Kukulcan,
although I suppose that’s Toltec, now, isn’t it, when those chaps held
off so many Zed Heads on the steps of that bloody great pyramid. So when
 I say “New World,” I’m really referring to the United States and
Canada.

 This isn’t an insult, you understand, please don’t take it as such.
You’re both young countries, you don’t have the history of institutional
 anarchy we Europeans suffered after the fall of Rome. You’ve always had
 standing, national governments with the forces capable of enforcing law
 and order.

 I know that wasn’t true during your westward expansion or your civil
war, and please, I’m not discounting those pre–Civil War fortresses or
the experiences of those defending them. I’d one day like to visit Fort
Jefferson. I hear those who survived there had quite a time of it. All
I’m saying is, in Europe’s history, we had almost a millennia of chaos
where sometimes the concept of physical safety stopped at the
battlements of your lord’s castle. Does that make sense? I’m not making
sense; can we start again?

 No, no, this is fine. Please, continue.

 You’ll edit out all the daft bits.

 You got it.

 Right then. Castles. Well…I don’t want for a moment to overstate their
importance for the general war effort. In fact, when you compare them to
 any other type of fixed fortification, modern, modified, and so forth,
their contribution does seem quite negligible, unless you’re like me,
and that contribution was what saved your life.

 This doesn’t mean that a mighty fortress was naturally our God. For
starters, you must understand the inherent difference between a castle
and a palace. A lot of so-called castles were really nothing more than
just great impressive homes, or else had been converted to such after
their defensive value had become obsolete. These once impregnable
bastions now had so many windows cut into the ground floor that it would
 have taken forever to brick them all up again. You’d be better off in a
 modern block of flats with the staircase removed. And as far as those
palaces that were built as nothing more than status symbols, places like
 Chateau Ussé or Prague “Castle,” they were little more than death
traps.

 Just look at Versailles. That was a first-rate cock-up. Small wonder
the French government chose to build their national memorial on its
ashes. Did you ever read that poem by Renard, about the wild roses that
now grow in the memorial garden, their petals stained red with the blood
 of the damned?

 Not that a high wall was all you needed for long-term survival. Like
any static defense, castles had as many internal as external dangers.
Just look at Muiderslot in Holland. One case of pneumonia, that’s all it
 took. Throw in a wet, cold autumn, poor nutrition, and lack of any
genuine medications…Imagine what that must have been like, trapped
behind those high stone walls, those around you fatally ill, knowing
your time was coming, knowing the only slim hope you had was to escape.
The journals written by some of the dying tell of people going mad with
desperation, leaping into that moat choked with Zed Heads.

 And then there were fires like the ones at Braubach and Pierrefonds;
hundreds trapped with nowhere to run, just waiting to be charred by the
flames or asphyxiated by the smoke. There were also accidental
explosions, civilians who somehow found themselves in possession of
bombs but had no idea how to handle or even store them. At Miskolc
Diosgyor in Hungary, as I understand it, someone got their hands on a
cache of military-grade, sodium-based explosives. Don’t ask me what
exactly it was or why they had it, but nobody seemed to know that water,
 not fire, was the catalytic agent. The story goes that someone was
smoking in the armory, caused some small fire or whatnot. The stupid
sods thought they were preventing an explosion by dousing the crates in
water. It blew a hole right through the wall and the dead surged in like
 water through a breached dam.

 At least that was a mistake based on ignorance. I can’t even begin to
forgive what happened at Chateau de Fougeres. They were running low on
supplies, thought that they could dig a tunnel under their undead
attackers. What did they think this was, The Great Escape? Did they have
 any professional surveyors with them? Did they even understand the
basics of trigonometry? The bloody tunnel exit fell short by over half a
 kilometer, came up right in a nest of the damn things. Stupid wankers
hadn’t even thought to equip their tunnel with demolition charges.

 Yes, there were cock-ups aplenty, but there were also some noteworthy
triumphs. Many were subjected to only short-term sieges, the good
fortune of being on the right side of the line. Some in Spain, Bavaria,
or Scotland above the Antonine 2 only had to hold out for weeks, or even
 days. For some, like Kisimul, it was only a question of getting through
 one rather dodgy night. But then there were the true tales of victory,
like Chenonceau in France, a bizarre little Disneyesque castle built on a
 bridge over the Cher River. With both connections to land severed, and
the right amount of strategic forethought, they managed to hold their
position for years.

 They had enough supplies for years?

 Oh good lord, no. They simply waited for first snowfall, then raided
the surrounding countryside. This was, I should imagine, standard
procedure for almost anyone under siege, castle or not. I’m sure those
in your strategic “Blue Zones,” at least those above the snowline,
operated in much the same manner. In that way we were fortunate that
most of Europe freezes in winter. Many of the defenders I’ve spoken to
have agreed that the inevitable onset of winter, long and brutal as it
was, became a lifesaving reprieve. As long as they didn’t freeze to
death, many survivors took the opportunity of frozen Zed Heads to raid
the surrounding countryside for everything they’d need for the warmer
months.

 It’s not surprising how many defenders chose to remain in their
strongholds even with the opportunity to flee, be it Bouillon in Belgium
 or Spis in Slovakia or even back home like Beaumaris in Wales. Before
the war, the place had been nothing but a museum piece, a hollow shell
of roofless chambers and high concentric walls. The town council should
be given the VC for their accomplishments, pooling resources, organizing
 citizens, restoring this ruin to its former glory. They had just a few
months before the crisis engulfed their part of Britain. Even more
dramatic is the story of Conwy, both a castle and medieval wall that
protected the entire town. The inhabitants not only lived in safety and
relative comfort during the stalemate years, their access to the sea
allowed Conwy to become a springboard for our forces once we began to
retake our country. Have you ever read Camelot Mine?

 [I shake my head.]

 You must find yourself a copy. It’s a cracking good novel, based on the
 author’s own experiences as one of the defenders of Caerphilly. He
began the crisis on the second floor of his flat in Ludlow, Wales. As
his supplies ran out and the first snow fell, he decided to strike out
in search of more permanent lodgings. He came upon the abandoned ruin,
which had already been the sight of a halfhearted, and ultimately
fruitless, defense. He buried the bodies, smashed the frozen Zed Heads,
and set about restoring the castle on his own. He worked tirelessly, in
the most brutal winter on record. By May, Caerphilly was prepared for
the summer siege, and by the following winter, it became a haven for
several hundred other survivors.

 [He shows me some of his sketches.]

 A masterpiece, isn’t it, second largest in the British Isles.

 What’s the first?

 [He hesitates.]

 Windsor.

 Windsor was your castle.

 Well, not mine personally.

 I mean, you were there.

 [Another pause.]

 It was, from a defensive standpoint, as close as one could come to
perfection. Before the war, it was the largest inhabited castle in
Europe, almost thirteen acres. It had its own well for water, and enough
 storage space to house a decade’s worth of rations. The fire of 1992
led to a state-of-the-art suppression system, and the subsequent
terrorist threats upgraded security measures to rival any in the UK. Not
 even the general public knew what their tax dollars were paying for:
bulletproof glass, reinforced walls, retractable bars, and steel
shutters hidden so cleverly in windowsills and door frames.

 But of all our achievements at Windsor, nothing can rival the siphoning
 of crude oil and natural gas from the deposit several kilometers
beneath the castle’s foundation. It had been discovered in the 1990s but
 never exploited for a variety of political and environmental reasons.
You can believe we exploited it, though. Our contingent of royal
engineers rigged a scaffolding up and over our wall, and extended it to
the drilling site. It was quite an achievement, and you can see how it
became the precursor to our fortified motorways. On a personal level, I
was just grateful for the warm rooms, hot food, and, in a pinch…the
Molotovs and flaming ditch. It’s not the most efficient way to stop a
Zed Head, I know, but as long as you’ve got them stuck and can keep them
 in the fire…and besides, what else could we do when the bullets ran out
 and we were left with nothing else but an odd lot of medieval hand
weapons?

 There were quite a bit of those about, in museums, personal
collections…and not a decorative dud among them. These were real, tough
and tested. They became part of British life again, ordinary citizens
traipsing about with a mace or halberd or double-bladed battle-axe. I
myself became rather adept with this claymore, although you wouldn’t
think of it to look at me.

 [He gestures, slightly embarrassed, to the weapon almost as long as himself.]

 It’s not really ideal, takes a lot of skill, but eventually you learn
what you can do, what you never thought you were capable of, what others
 around you are capable of.

 [David hesitates before speaking. He is clearly uncomfortable. I hold out my hand.]

 Thank you so much for taking the time…

 There’s…more.

 If you’re not comfortable…

 No, please, it’s quite all right.

 [Takes a breath.] She…she wouldn’t leave, you see. She insisted, over
the objections of Parliament, to remain at Windsor, as she put it, “for
the duration.” I thought maybe it was misguided nobility, or maybe
fear-based paralysis. I tried to make her see reason, begged her almost
on my knees. Hadn’t she done enough with the Balmoral Decree, turning
all her estates into protected zones for any who could reach and defend
them? Why not join her family in Ireland or the Isle of Man, or, at
least, if she was insisting on remaining in Britain, supreme command HQ
north above the Antonine.

 What did she say?

 “The highest of distinctions is service to others.” [He clears his
throat, his upper lip quivers for a second.] Her father had said that;
it was the reason he had refused to run to Canada during the Second
World War, the reason her mother had spent the blitz visiting civilians
huddled in the tube stations beneath London, the same reason, to this
day, we remain a United Kingdom. Their task, their mandate, is to
personify all that is great in our national spirit. They must forever be
 an example to the rest of us, the strongest, and bravest, and absolute
best of us. In a sense, it is they who are ruled by us, instead of the
other way around, and they must sacrifice everything, everything, to
shoulder the weight of this godlike burden. Otherwise what’s the
flipping point? Just scrap the whole damn tradition, roll out the bloody
 guillotine, and be done with it altogether. They were viewed very much
like castles, I suppose: as crumbling, obsolete relics, with no real
modern function other than as tourist attractions. But when the skies
darkened and the nation called, both reawoke to the meaning of their
existence. One shielded our bodies, the other, our souls.