Andre Renard's Interview

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 and yes, there
was 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.]

 No standard equipment; whatever one believed would suit him. There were
 no firearms, you understand. The air, the gas, it was too flammable.
The fire from a gun…

 [He makes the sound of an explosion.]

 We had the Beretta-Grechio, the Italian air carbine. It was a wartime
model of a child’s carbon dioxide pellet gun. You got maybe five shots,
six or seven if it was pressed right up to their heads. Good weapon, but
 always not enough of them. And you had to be careful! If you missed, if
 the ball struck the stone, if the stone was dry, if you got a
spark…entire tunnels would catch, explosions that buried men alive, or
fireballs that melted their masks right to their faces. Hand to hand is
always better. Here…

 [He rises from the table to show me something on his mantelpiece. The
weapon’s handle is encased in a semicircular steel ball. Protruding from
 this ball are two 8-inch steel spikes at right angles from each other.]

 You see why, eh? No room to swing a blade. Quick, through the eye, or over the top of the head.

 [He demonstrates with a quick punch and stab combination.]

 My own design, a modern version of my great-grandfather’s at Verdun, eh? You know Verdun—“On ne passe pas”—They shall not pass!

 [He resumes his lunch.]

 No room, no warning, suddenly they are upon you, perhaps right in front
 of your eyes, or grabbing from a side passage you didn’t know was
there. Everyone was armored in some way…chain mail or heavy
leather…almost always it was too heavy, too suffocating, wet leather
jackets and trousers, heavy metal chain-link shirts. You try to fight,
you are already exhausted, men would tear off their masks, gasping for
air, inhaling the stink. Many died before you could get them to the
surface.

 I used greaves, protection here (gestures to his forearms) and gloves,
chain-covered leather, easy to remove when not in combat. They were my
own design. We didn’t have the American battle uniforms, but we did have
 your marsh covers, the long, high waterproof boots with the bite-proof
fiber sewn into the lining. We needed those.

 The water was high that summer; the rains were coming hard and the
Seine was a raging torrent. It was always wet. There was rot between
your fingers, your toes, in your crotch. The water was up to your ankles
 almost all the time, sometimes up to your knees or waist. You would be
on point, walking, or crawling—sometimes we had to crawl in the stinking
 fluid up to our elbows. And suddenly the ground would just fall away.
You would splash, headfirst, into one of those unmapped holes. You only
had a few seconds to right yourself before your gas mask flooded. You
kicked and thrashed, your comrades would grab you and haul fast.
Drowning was the least of your worries. Men would be splashing,
struggling to stay afloat with all that heavy gear, and suddenly their
eyes would bulge, and you’d hear their muffled cries. You might feel the
 moment they attacked: the snap or tear and suddenly you fall over with
the poor bastard on top of you. If he wasn’t wearing the marsh covers…a
foot is gone, the whole leg; if he had been crawling and went in
face-first…sometimes that face would be gone.

 Those were times when we called a full retreat to a defensive position
and waited for the Cousteaus, the scuba divers trained to work and fight
 specifically in those flooded tunnels. With only a searchlight and a
shark suit, if they were lucky to get one, and, at most, two hours of
air. They were supposed to wear a safety line, but most of them refused
to do so. The lines tended to get tangled and slow up the diver’s
progress. Those men, and women, had a one in twenty chance of survival,
the lowest ratio of any branch of any army, I don’t care what anyone
says. 1 Is it any wonder they received an automatic Legion of Honor?

 And what was it all for? Fifteen thousand dead or missing. Not just the
 Cousteaus, all of us, the entire core. Fifteen thousand souls in just
three months. Fifteen thousand at a time when the war was winding down
all over the world. “Go! Go! Fight! Fight!” It didn’t have to be that
way. How long did it take the English to clear all of London? Five
years, three years after the war was officially over? They went slow and
 safe, one section at a time, low speed, low intensity, low casualty
rate. Slow and safe, like most major cities. Why us? That English
general, what he said about “Enough dead heroes for the end of time…”

 “Heroes,” that’s what we were, that’s what our leaders wanted, that’s
what our people felt they needed. After all that has happened, not just
in this war, but in so many wars before: Algeria, Indochina, the
Nazis…you understand what I am saying…you see the sorrow and pity? We
understood what the American president said about “reclaiming our
confidence”; we understood it more than most. We needed heroes, new
names and places to restore our pride.

 The Ossuary, Port-Mahon Quarry, the Hospital…that was our shining
moment…the Hospital. The Nazis had built it to house mental patients, so
 the legend goes, letting them starve to death behind the concrete
walls. During our war it had been an infirmary for the recently bitten.
Later, as more began to reanimate and the survivors’ humanity faded like
 their electric lamps, they began throwing the infected, and who knows
who else, into that undead vault. An advance team broke through without
realizing what was on the other side. They could have withdrawn, blown
the tunnel, sealed them in again…One squad against three hundred
zombies. One squad led by my baby brother. His voice was the last thing
we heard before their radio went silent. His last words: “On ne passe
pas!”