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World War Z
 
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World War Z [Format Kindle]

Max Brooks
4.8 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (13 commentaires client)

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WARNINGS 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 came in. 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 Yangshao savages. 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 "him." "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 Universit...

From Publishers Weekly

Brooks, the author of the determinedly straight-faced parody The Zombie Survival Guide (2003), returns in all seriousness to the zombie theme for his second outing, a future history in the style of Theodore Judson's Fitzpatrick's War. Brooks tells the story of the world's desperate battle against the zombie threat with a series of first-person accounts "as told to the author" by various characters around the world. A Chinese doctor encounters one of the earliest zombie cases at a time when the Chinese government is ruthlessly suppressing any information about the outbreak that will soon spread across the globe. The tale then follows the outbreak via testimony of smugglers, intelligence officials, military personnel and many others who struggle to defeat the zombie menace. Despite its implausible premise and choppy delivery, the novel is surprisingly hard to put down. The subtle, and not so subtle, jabs at various contemporary politicians and policies are an added bonus. (Sept.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 603 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 353 pages
  • Pagination - ISBN de l'édition imprimée de référence : 0715637037
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B003WE9TU8
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.8 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (13 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°14.563 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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Commentaires client les plus utiles
51 internautes sur 57 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Par Wismerhill VOIX VINE
Format:Broché
Max Brooks, fils de Mel, n'est pas un béotien quand le sujet à traiter est celui du fameux mort-vivant, le zombie. Déjà coupable d'un premier bouquin sur la survie après une infestation de mort-vivants (The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead), étrange parodie de guide de survie qui étonne par sa complétude et son sérieux, Max prolonge son oeuvre horrifique avec ce rapport sur la guerre mondiale Z.

Construit comme un rapport factuel commandé par l'UNPCR (la Commission d'Enquête d'Après-guerre des Nations Unies), le livre est une collection de témoignages sous la forme d'interview de personnages ayant participé de près ou de loin aux moments clés de la guerre mondiale Z. Il n'y a donc pas à proprement parler d'intrigue. L'Histoire avec un grand H se déroule lentement, chronologiquement, à travers les yeux de ces quelques survivants. L'approche est résolument réaliste, l'auteur s'attachant à traiter les aspects sociaux, économiques, militaires et politiques d'une menace à l'échelle planétaire différente de tout ce que l'Humanité ait jamais connu. Les zombies ne sont finalement qu'un prétexte pour mieux imaginer comment le monde réagirait après une telle gueule de bois.

Cela peut paraître aride au premier abord, c'est pourtant passionnant. Chaque histoire se dévore et les personnages sont attachants. Max égratigne au passage quelques travers de son Amérique natale, comme l'armée, le gouvernement ou la toute puissance des médias (il s'est d'ailleurs fait traiter de gauchiste pour ça.
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 World war Z 13 mars 2013
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
Magnifique roman en forme de faux témoignages dont chacun est à lui seul une petite histoire.

Lu en Anglais et en utilisant au maximum la capacité du Kindle à proposer une traduction instantanée, bien utile dans le cas de cet ouvrage où fourmillent les termes d'argot militaire peu familiers au Français moyen !

Au vu de la bande annonce, le film tiré de l'ouvrage ne s'en inspirera que vaguement. Il faut dire que, honnêtement, c'était pratiquement inadaptable en l'état.
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Excellent 17 novembre 2012
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
Ce livre est l'un de mes préférés. On est loin des histoires et films de zombies ordinaires. Ce livre se lit plutôt comme un essai et décrit de manière extrêmement réaliste les réactions humaines si un évènement de la sorte se passait. Dommage qu'il se lise aussi vite.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 La Zible 12 juillet 2014
Par ytse
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
Si si, je trouve que ce monument est la bible des zombis. Ici, il n'est pas tant question des zombis que de la réaction des humains dans ce contexte ; tous les angles sont envisagés, toutes les questions qu'on ne se pose jamais aussi ("pourquoi ils ont les yeux vitreux ?" "que fait un zombi qui arrive devant la mer ?")... Tout y est, et c'est très bien amené. Si par hasard vous lisez ce commentaire pour savoir s'il faut le lire, ne réfléchissez plus.
Nota : sans comparaison aucune avec le film.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Au top ! 8 juillet 2014
Par Cyril
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
J'ai choisi ce livre en triant les romans de SF par popularité. Eh bien les gens ne se sont pas trompés. Il n'y a pas un récit, mais des récits, tous décousus, pour la plupart aussi bons les uns que les autres. Réussir comme ça à faire passer la guerre des zombies à travers des témoignages, c'est fort.
(NB : je n'ai pas vu le film)
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4.0 étoiles sur 5 Pour tous les fans de zombie 7 décembre 2013
Par lonesnake
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
Très bon livre. Un univers réaliste et très travaillé.

Peut être moins accessible pour les non-anglophones, qui préfèreront la version française.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Tres bon livre dans le style zombie 9 octobre 2013
Format:Poche|Achat vérifié
Tres bonne histoire.
La narration sous forme d interview est agréable.
L'histoire est vraiment prenante. Ca revisite le style apocalipse zombie et lui donne un coup de frais.
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Fear, he used to say, fear is the most valuable commodity in the universe. That blew me away. Turn on the TV, hed say. What are you seeing? People selling their products? No. People selling the fear of you having to live without their products. Fuckin A, was he right. Fear of aging, fear of loneliness, fear of poverty, fear of failure. Fear is the most basic emotion we have. Fear is primal. Fear sells. That was my mantra. Fear sells. &quote;
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