This blog still exists post-zombie class. We could strive to continue to make this blogsite the go-to for zombie information. Is anyone else down to continue to keep it alive....err undead?
[...]
During the last few months of any semester a few things can always be counted on. Homework will pile up, meal points will dwindle, and the souls of students will fade until they are resigned to sit in a desk in the library staring at nothing.
The semester always starts out with high hopes- my classes are so interesting, I'm going to work so hard, my social life is great, the marche is finally serving good food, etc. Then classes load on the work, the assignments, the extra readings, the required workshops, the group projects, the semester research papers, and life seems to stop. Meal points go toward coffee and whatever is leftover at whatever cafeteria is open when you finally drag yourself, half starved and twitchy from caffeine, out of your study hole. But coffee only works for so long, and you still need to be awake for classes, so redbull it is.
My desk is covered in papers, books, coffee cups, flashcards, and triscuits. I picked up my room some time last week -I think- and my trashcan is overflowing with redbull cans and burrito wrappers from New World. I can tell you exactly how many sticky notes are on my wall and how many tack holes are in my corkboard, but I couldn't tell you when the last time I did laundry was if my life was on the line.
I find myself people watching. When my work isn't going well I stare off into space, and accidentally stare at other people working in the library. They are just like me. Staring at nothing. Jumping at sounds, or when someone passes by too close to them and startles them. Reaching for coffee cups with shaky hands, and clicking pens. I could start a study on the relationship between coffee consumed, and overall sense of wellbeing. Spoiler: it's not good.
It's times like this, when I'm watching other people work and my brain is working so fast my body can't keep up, that I realize we're all zombies. We stand in lines to spend our meal points on coffee, we stagger to our desks- you know, the one you always go to and if someone else has taken it, it just throws you off for an unhealthy amount of time- and stare and stare and stare at our computers and books, until we need to find more coffee.
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Since reading WWZ I've been keeping an eye on China, and what I've seen has been disturbingly foreshadowing. It started with dead pigs being pulled out of the Huangpu river. My first thought was obviously that interview in WWZ when we think we've found the "source" of the virus - in a body of water in China. No, no, Jen. Stay clam. It's just China cracking down on contaminated meat leading to farmers having animals they can't sell to slaughter and disposing of them in any way they can.
Then there were waves of dead ducks. Just… dead ducks. Everywhere. This was when news of the new strain of bird flu was picking up speed, and everyone was freaking out- remember that picture of the mother and daughter screaming and running away from a goose? Yeah. These dead ducks could have been similarly affected by disease like the pigs, or their death could have been people's response to the new bird flu outbreak. But definitely not zombies. Nope.
Finally, the dead dogs. Thousands of them. Okay, okay, NOW it just might be zombies. At first they where just being found in the river (last count was 16,000 dead pigs pulled from the Huangpu river), but then they were being found in homes and farms in the Henan province- near chemical factories. And through all of these carcasses, the Chinese government still denies that they have anything to do with the new bird flue.
Yep. The zombie virus has started. Prepare yourself.
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In Zone One, author
Colson Whitehead describes the protagonist as having followed the “American
checklist.” The American checklist, like any agenda, results in zombifying
effects: you forget to think for yourself and question things, and follow the
agenda. This particularly concerning for our political system, which is mostly
represented by two very opposing sides. If you are a democrat, you must think
this way about x,y, and z. If you identify as a republican, it can be assumed
you have a particular stance on x,y, and z.
These opposing political agendas are representative of the whole
good vs. evil scenario, and even team sports. During the debates we crowd
around the tv and cheer for one democratic or republican representative while
booing the other, much like Superbowl Sunday. What our political system says to
me, is that we have a desire to pick a team in order to feel a part of something instead of think about what we are
participating in. It’s a given well participate, we just have to pick a side.
This is the political system many accept without thinking about. There’s no
hype around the question of the system itself, but again, who are the players
within it.
I know none of this is groundbreaking thought here, but it’s
reminiscent of what we know about zombies: they move aimlessly and can’t think.
The drive they have is impulsive, and its to eat brains. The living have
well-functioning minds and are able to have logic thought. Zombies can’t, but
they want brains more than we do. ….yeah, this whole ironic-ending thing didn’t
really work for me here, did it. Oh well. Keep calm and zombie on…I bet that’s
already on a t-shirt.
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This semester I took a course called adaptation to climate
change. In it, we discussed how communities respond during disastrous events, how
they may become more resilient in the aftermath, and general sentiments
regarding environmentalism—which often include a kind of fatalistic outlook.
Professors in the environmental studies department try not to appear “doom and
gloom” about the state of the world and the rate in which we exploit our
natural resources and destruct nature. Inevitably, one can become hung up on
such attitudes in the environmental field, which one of my professor calls “an
infatuation with fatalism.”
The explosion of zombies in our culture seems to reflect a
societal scale of an infatuation with fatalism. As we’ve discussed in class,
zombies serve as a metaphor for many things, including a fear of the
unknown. We’ve come to understand the many things and
fears zombies represent, but we maybe, mostly don’t know why our society is
hung-up on feelings of anxiety, fear, or the unknown.
I know I don’t know why we have the tendency for an
infatuation with fatality, but I see this everywhere. I see this pessimistic,
anxious mindset, ingested and regurgitated on the media and in my interactions
with friends and coworkers. Our news headlines and front page text of magazines
always consist of some kind of gruesome or disturbing one-liner that dramatically
exacerbates the situation this news source has intended to inform us about. Broadcasters
and news anchors who covered the Boston marathon tragedy ping-ponged questions such
as, “do you think this attack was domestic or not?” back and forth another for
hours, even though no one had a way of knowing yet. These questions and this
anxiety everyone felt was framed as news; part of their job that day was to
mirror our fear and anxieties, resulting in more general fear and paranoia
amongst the masses.
I see this collective, team-work effort of anxiety building
among students at the library and coworkers. I always witness this interaction
once during a visit to the library.
“Hey I haven’t seen you in so long, what’s up?”
“Ugh studying for my exam/writing a _ page paper/ preparing
for my_/working on a project that counts for _part of my grade…I’m so screwed”
“Aw man that sucks, I’m studying for my exam/writing a _
page paper/ preparing for my_/working on a project that counts for _part of my
grade…shoot me now right?”
And then both people continue to go on and list each of
their academic and personal responsibilities they have to accomplish, as if it
was a contest. Whoever has the most tasks to fulfill wins. And for some people,
this is a victory. They like seeming as if they’re the busiest or most
accomplished. Because sometimes for them it feel smart, or important.
What this interaction also serves to do, is provide an
outlet for anxiety. It’s a little backhanded though, because at the same time,
it generates more anxiety. The person who does not win the “I have more going
on in my life than you do” match now suddenly feels stressed out that they have
all these things to do, but they’re still not the busiest or seemingly more
important in comparison to those who lead similar lifestyles in which it makes
sense to compete in this match with one another. This in and of itself is not representative of
an infatuation with fatality, but is born from the same place.
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The Bad Lip Reading of The Walking Dead
I came across this and I had to share so all of you to enjoy. The voices are actually well done and it makes even the most disappointing scenes of the series, enjoyable.
And also, I want to know what direction you think the series is headed in!
[...]
I came across this and I had to share so all of you to enjoy. The voices are actually well done and it makes even the most disappointing scenes of the series, enjoyable.
And also, I want to know what direction you think the series is headed in!
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We spent a lot of time playing the "what if" game this semester. It was fun...a lot of fun and I certainly learned a lot and thought about a lot of cool things. Thats the fun with things that are fantasy..its just that..fantasy it probably wont happen. On the other hand, the reason its fun to think about is that it could happen. I'm feeling a little nostalgic pending graduation and so I'm curious if, and this is more of a question to myself, what will happen when it happens? In 4 months I will be sitting at a desk, unfortunately I will be sitting behind a desk for the next 40 years (maybe) and I'll have a lot of time to think. What will I do? Will it ever happen? Frankly, I dont know. I think thats the point, or at least what I took away from the course...no matter what it will really suck if and when the zombies come. The sad thing, people, besides ourselves, probably have not spent as much time as we have thinking about it. So what will happen? Will it be The Walking Dead? Will it be Warm Bodies? Will it be World War Z? I think the answer is that it wont be any of them. It'll be its own thing but I'll be prepared because I have read those books and seen those movies and had those conversations. Thats cool but I will still probably become a zombie. Im okay with that.
[...]
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A continuation from Blog Post 2.
An abrupt sensation, an overflow of stimuli; lucidity permeates my inner workings. I've been here before, many times in fact. She's not a stranger collapsed on my lawn but another embodiment of a recurring theme that has plagued my dreams since the dawn of the crisis.
Traumatic dreams are a common symptom of post-apocalyptic stress disorder. Lucidity is perhaps the only notable consequence of the condition. Even at that, it is only a seldom occurrence in the majority of PASD cases, and even at that, lucidity is still a rare feature in any dream, traumatic or not.
But now that I'm lucid I know I don't need to investigate the lady who has collapsed on my lawn. I know who she is and what she symbolizes. These are things that cannot be forgotten; things that cannot be unseen.
But dwelling on the mistakes we've made in the apocalypse doesn't get us any further than dwelling on whose fault it is.
As I do in many dreams, and occasionally in the waking state, I begin to contemplate the reason I'm still here, writing to you today. There was a time when I had convinced myself that my adoration of zombie literature, film, games, et cetera, not only predisposed me to a predicament of zombie apocalypse survival, but may have actually been a fulfillment of my subconscious (or not so subconscious) desire. Maybe this was the fruition of my yearning, the yen of my alter-ego.
As of late, I'm less and less certain of this pedagogy. The blaring difference between the literature of apocalypse and the actuality of survival is the "purpose." I can't help but feel like I don't have one. Maybe it's a certainty that I don't have one. Or if I do, I don't understand it yet. And what evidence is there to suggest that I ever will?
Even though the current state is a dream, dreams are not mere. This epiphany has been the most crucial of insights, post-apocalyptic, stress-disorder related (or not). Often the personalities in dreams interpolate wisdom from centuries past or centuries beyond. Sometimes they are quite external, not of the self the self. And when that is the case, I cannot imagine from where such sagacity has been derived. This particular dream is the point at which my boat is tipped.
Waking up brings me back to hopeless reality, the same apocalyptic reality each and every time. So today I choose to investigate the collapsed lady on my exceptionally green property in this vividly not-so-mere dreamscape. I approach the site, hole in the ground, rounder than previously assumed, collapsed individual, manhole and all. As is common in dreams, things are there, or simply are, and are suddenly not. The woman is gone, the hole is lined with a series of tiles, so to say, a granite well, like the sink of a fancy kitchen. It is deeper than expected, perhaps two meters depth, but the greater surprise is the gent sporting a white beard, white ponytail, and white tux staring back at me as I lean over the circumference of the circle.
The gentleman speaks: "Greetings, lad. You are lost and I must pose questions. Do you have a while to listen? That is, will you not abandon the premise until we can discuss, at length, the items on my list of inquiries?"
As mentioned, my boat is now tipped. Dream people do not ask questions. If they ever do, this isn't the kind of question they ask. Their role is to perpetuate the dream plot, particularly to not let onto the fact that a dream is a dream. This character is not only voiding the principle, but acknowledges that I am a lucid dreamer; he acknowledges that I can rouse myself from sleep on a whim.
This seems like a good time to wake myself up then, but I won't yet. I am not easily frightened but this brief confrontation is genuinely disturbing. The familiar sense of disturbing much alike my first encounter with a zombie. Or for most people, when they realized their own corruption was imminent, that they would inevitably turn into a zombie.
I'm at a loss for words but it doesn't matter.
"I do, of course, know what you are going to say; that is, what you are thinking. But this exercise is more effective under the guise of a conversation, wouldn't you say? The objective, after all, is the acquisition of purpose, recognition of why you should or should not be."
I'm still at a loss for words. I suppose this could have gone unsaid. The man is no longer in the hole. I didn't see him leave the hole, nor did I see the hole become covered. A tight-fit seal now rests where the ditch was. I take note of the egg engraved on the cover, simple and elegant. I haven't decided, at this point, whether I should respond to the question, or listen to his next one.
The man begins to walk toward the edge of the property, toward the forest that lies beyond. Before I realize it, I'm beside him and we're standing before a vast, cloudless blue sky and golden sand stretching to the horizon.
"The egg represents your predicament. I'm sure you understand the resemblance. The egg is unhatched and we do not know what it may contain, what its purpose may be. Analogous to it, is your self. You do not understand your purpose. Perhaps, your purpose can be anything that you wish?"
I know it isn't so straightforward. Before the crisis it could have been postulated that an individual's potential was limited only by their imagination and luck of the draw. It isn't that simple either, of course, but more unreasonable thoughts have been had.
I arrive at my first question. I hesitate to ask as I notice the scene has changed again. The sky is gray and the golden sand vibrates with magnificent color and radiance, it seems to have a life of its own.
The man is now seated in a throne, or a large chair. It's unclear what he's sitting on, things are sometimes blurry in dreams, as they are right now. But it's clear that he's sitting beside a statue of himself, seated upon the same roost. I have trouble distinguishing the individual from the statue.
"Why an egg?"
The man and the statue begin to respond as a pair, alternating by sentence. It is no longer a single voice, not even two. Many voices are resounding together.
"It may be anything. The fact that it may be, at all. It would seem that the possibilities for your purpose are not so limitless. Consider the greatest of life's potentials to the electrons of every molecule. They are not so distinct as it may seem. Nor is the ground upon which you walk from the foot with which you proceed. This can be said of nearly all things you can imagine- rather, comprehend."
The sense of externality that is standard to dream experiences is suddenly different. It has not been removed or replaced, it has not even expanded in any measurable sense. The words to convey the happenings do not exist. The externality has become, relatively, an internality.
"The purpose of your current self is considerably less important than I may have originally suggested. Your next self will be one that lived well before the time of "the crisis" as you know it. It may be one composed of fewer atoms, or perhaps many more, or perhaps just different ones. Maybe it will be one that is not of any sensible relation to this planet Earth. But again, they, the planets and the atoms that they are composed of, are less distinguishable from one another than it seems, as are the souls that inhabit the multi- or universe as you know it."
And it dawns upon me. "I'm going to be reincarnated? But, 'it's not that simple,' of course. I suppose I know this but now I need to hear it. This could have only been understood as a conversation after all."
"It's not that simple. The lessons of one life stay with you in an inaccessible part of your core. The core isn't anatomical or spiritual, so much as it simply, is. Again, it is not so distinct from the universe itself. Every interaction with every person, animal, plant, substrate or solvent, was an interaction with yourself and every other self as well."
"That's a mouthful. Anyway, how long ago…did I die?"
"It's not that simple, either. Time is a three-dimensional sensation. This is, again, beyond your comprehension. But if it will sate your curiosity before your next birth, your sister, the zombie of her self, ate your insides about seventy-two hours ago. You were comatose, slowly starving through the winter while your crops could not grow."
"I think I understand the egg now."
"You don't. It's not that simple, of course. Now, off you go."
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Let me preface this quick story with two disclaimers for the internet. 1.The medical procedures I describe in this post are legal if done by a licensed medical provider (I am one and so is the person described in the post). 2. I am 21 years old and can legally consume as much alcohol as I want...yeah I'm a big boy. Also if you dont like needles...dont read...sorry if you just passed out, you'll be fine unless you hit your head..then call 911..maybe ill see ya. DONT TRY THIS AT HOME.
I officially finished my undergraduate studies last Tuesday. I have had a weird year knowing I have a job lined up and I am super lucky for that...some would say I'm a boss. Anyway, finishing college called for a good amount of celebration. Now, in the week and certainly last few days leading up to the day I became a zombie I did not take good care of myself. I am normally pretty healthy...I run, drink lots of water, and eat my veggies (except broccoli fuck broccoli it sucks and my kids will never be forced to eat it). But in the throws of exams and final papers I did not take care of myself. I slept 2-4 hours a night and drank coffee..only coffee for 3 days. What is the result? Extreme dehydration and sleep depravation. Typical college. Now, it is also allergie season. I get em bad (thank you mom and dad for raising me in a sheltered air conditioned environment) so of course I go to the drug store every two weeks and promise I wont make meth with sudafed and claritin D. I swear I dont make meth but I wish I did sometimes, breaking bad looks like fun. Anyway, you shouldnt take the two drugs together...you are blocking too many receptors if you take too many antihistamines...I know that...but shit I hate sneezing and snotting on my friends and family so I combine the two. This also dehydrates me and thins my blood.
So what does any college student do upon any accomplishment from tying ones shoes in the morning to finishing college...they drink. I drank a lot. A lot...i dont really know how much. I dont often drink so much that I forget how much I drank or what I did. I know I spent a lot of money (credit cards are evil and make us all zombies). If i bought you a drink i certainly saw people from class...I know I talkled about zombies....i'd like a drink sometime.
So I was a zombie..I had no agency...i was running on purely instinct and all I wanted was brains (KKD sandwiches) and yes I got some brains...according to my bank of america visa...sweet. I was in a pack of zombies because all of my friends who went with me also suffered from the same lack of memory and funds. Im sure we had fun and we all ended up not in jail or dead so thats good. Also, ive always wondered what its like to work at KKD around 2 in the morning...im sure most people seem like zombies, gruntin their order and slouching in the corner.
I woke up...still drunk and literally dry...no fluid in my body with a pounding head ache super cold to the touch. (Here is where you stop reading if you dont like needles) So being an EMT (I wont name the squad but you can figure it out I guess) I see a lot of super dehydrated zombies mostly because of herion (drugs suck and they ruin your life). Those people need fluids bad. I needed fluids bad. Now, you may be asking, why the hell did you get up and go get water and go back to sleep. I didnt think I could move...I was a zombie with no body..just a brain that was not really functioning. I made a phone call to a friend who is an ER technician (she is not a registered nurse yet) at some hospital...I told her that I had an emergency and when she got off work I would need 4 bags of fluid, a lock, needle, and a flush, some tape, and gauze. She came over an hour later with the tools and we brought back to life. I did the insert (i didnt want her to be responsible if I hurt myself) and frankly i'm impressed. I had her ductape the bags to my wall and I just went down the line switching the chords.
I was no longer a zombie. I was telling some of my friends the story and the told me that people had started a business curing zombies in a magical place...that place is Las Vegas...im sure there are lots of zombies there. Cool stuff,
http://hangoverheaven.com/
[...]
I officially finished my undergraduate studies last Tuesday. I have had a weird year knowing I have a job lined up and I am super lucky for that...some would say I'm a boss. Anyway, finishing college called for a good amount of celebration. Now, in the week and certainly last few days leading up to the day I became a zombie I did not take good care of myself. I am normally pretty healthy...I run, drink lots of water, and eat my veggies (except broccoli fuck broccoli it sucks and my kids will never be forced to eat it). But in the throws of exams and final papers I did not take care of myself. I slept 2-4 hours a night and drank coffee..only coffee for 3 days. What is the result? Extreme dehydration and sleep depravation. Typical college. Now, it is also allergie season. I get em bad (thank you mom and dad for raising me in a sheltered air conditioned environment) so of course I go to the drug store every two weeks and promise I wont make meth with sudafed and claritin D. I swear I dont make meth but I wish I did sometimes, breaking bad looks like fun. Anyway, you shouldnt take the two drugs together...you are blocking too many receptors if you take too many antihistamines...I know that...but shit I hate sneezing and snotting on my friends and family so I combine the two. This also dehydrates me and thins my blood.
So what does any college student do upon any accomplishment from tying ones shoes in the morning to finishing college...they drink. I drank a lot. A lot...i dont really know how much. I dont often drink so much that I forget how much I drank or what I did. I know I spent a lot of money (credit cards are evil and make us all zombies). If i bought you a drink i certainly saw people from class...I know I talkled about zombies....i'd like a drink sometime.
So I was a zombie..I had no agency...i was running on purely instinct and all I wanted was brains (KKD sandwiches) and yes I got some brains...according to my bank of america visa...sweet. I was in a pack of zombies because all of my friends who went with me also suffered from the same lack of memory and funds. Im sure we had fun and we all ended up not in jail or dead so thats good. Also, ive always wondered what its like to work at KKD around 2 in the morning...im sure most people seem like zombies, gruntin their order and slouching in the corner.
I woke up...still drunk and literally dry...no fluid in my body with a pounding head ache super cold to the touch. (Here is where you stop reading if you dont like needles) So being an EMT (I wont name the squad but you can figure it out I guess) I see a lot of super dehydrated zombies mostly because of herion (drugs suck and they ruin your life). Those people need fluids bad. I needed fluids bad. Now, you may be asking, why the hell did you get up and go get water and go back to sleep. I didnt think I could move...I was a zombie with no body..just a brain that was not really functioning. I made a phone call to a friend who is an ER technician (she is not a registered nurse yet) at some hospital...I told her that I had an emergency and when she got off work I would need 4 bags of fluid, a lock, needle, and a flush, some tape, and gauze. She came over an hour later with the tools and we brought back to life. I did the insert (i didnt want her to be responsible if I hurt myself) and frankly i'm impressed. I had her ductape the bags to my wall and I just went down the line switching the chords.
http://hangoverheaven.com/
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The Candy Kingdom rests peacefully after a long day of festivities to honor the advent of Princess Bubblegum's new decorpsinator serum. The original serum was flawed and then supposedly perfected by PB to restore its intended effect of reviving the fallen Candy People who are no longer with us. Little do the Candy People know, their revived love ones will only maintain temporary control over their actions before resuming their sugar-hyped craze for more sugar.
Finn the Human and Jake the Dog arrive at the Candy Kingdom on a hot summer morning, greeted by the stench of caramelized sugar. The Gumball Guardians have been toppled, their contents scattered and melted on the pavement, or half chewed and blown to bubbles. Finn and Jake notice the Princess has sealed her laboratory from the inside. This can only mean she is already at work to devise a new serum to contain the madness.
Finn and Jake reach the doors of the laboratory unscathed. They are, after all, not made of sugar; they are not at risk of being cannibalized by the Candy People.
"Princess! Open up!" shouts Finn.
"Finn!? Is that you?" The Princess's voice sounds strangely monotone but Finn attributes the deviance to his imagination.
"Is everything alright in there? Did you whip up a new formula?" asks Jake.
PB responds in her monotone, "I'm working on it now but I need your help! I'm missing some key ingredients! I need the magical gems from each of the princesses and the Ice King! But don't worry about Lumpy Space Princess's magical gem. It's not actually magical. Now hurry! We need to clean up this sugary mess!"
After an arduous journey, Finn and Jake return to the nearly dilapidated Candy Kingdom with each of the nine magical gems, omitting LSP's.
"Princess! We're back!" shouts Finn, exhausted. "Let us into the lab to help you finish the serum!"
The barricaded graham cracker doors swing inward. The room is dark, lit only by what little light can breach through the rainbow gumdrop window panes. Finn steps into the room slowly. He turns to his right, drawn by a muffled voice that can only be the voice of Princess Bubblegum. Finn finds PB, Lady Rainicorn and Peppermint Butler trapped inside the safety shower. Finn and Jake run over and attempt to open the door to the shower but it is bound by evil magic.
"What happened!?" asks Finn. "How did y'all trap yourselves in here!?"
"Finn, I don't think they wound up stuck in here by their own doing…" says Jake.
The three prisoners begin to panic and point toward something behind Finn and Jake on the other side of the room. A shadow creeps across the wall, cast by a large, horned figure standing behind them. The Lich ambushes Finn and steals his bag, which contains the Enchiridion and the nine magical gems. Before the heroes can react, the Lich has flown out the gumdrop window and landed on the ground far below.
"Jake! After him!" shouts Finn.
Jake stretches out the window after the Lich and manages to grab hold of him as he opens and steps through the inter-dimensional wormhole created by the matching of the magical gems with the Enchiridion. Finn grabs ahold of Jake's tail and manages to tag along for the ride.
The heroes find themselves in Prismo's time room. The Lich is nowhere to be found. The heroes are woozy from their journey through the wormhole, but Prismo is a familiar presence.
"Prismo! It's good to see you again, dude. Didja get a girlfriend yet?" asks Jake.
"No, but I've got some more pickles for you," replies Prismo. "But this isn't the right time for that. Did you guys see that Lich guy? N-n-n-nasty!"
"We chased him in here," says Finn, "but we didn't see him when we arrived. What happened?"
"He wished for the extinction of all Candy-kind! No big deal."
"And you granted it!?!" shouts Finn.
"Yep. But don't worry guys," says Prismo, "I'll give each of you a wish too."
Finn immediately shouts "I wish the Candy Kingdom was safe!" And like that Finn disappears to his altered reality.
Jake knows Finn's in trouble, but he still has his own wish, so that can wait. It's pickle time!
ZOMBIE PACMAN Did you hear the one about the seagull and Sodexo?
GHOST No.
ZOMBIE PACMAN So a seagull swoops down and picks up this piece of bread in front of this really generic airport café.
GHOST Ha.
ZOMBIE PACMAN No don’t laugh yet, that isn’t the funny part. Where was I? Oh, so this seagull starts to fly off with the bread and all of a sudden he gets this really disgusted look on his face and spits the bread out.
GHOST Ha.
ZOMBIE PACMAN No stop! That isn’t the punch line. The joke goes: the seagull says, “fuck Sodexo, I’ll just have the brains.”
The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo is an iconic image in western civilization. Even those unfamiliar with art history immediately recognize the portrait of outstretched hands nearly meeting in ethereal and religiously symbolic union between God and Man.
It is unclear where the current plague originated--east, west, north, or south etcetera. Of perhaps greater importance are the precepts westernized zombies now roam from township to township with, propagating at will. Since no living person can live to tell the rational--and possibly irrational--thoughts and exploits of the undead, it is safe to say that the discipline of zombie psychology is ubiquitously characterized by a lack of understanding.
Metaphysically speaking, understanding zombie ontology is on par with our ability to perceive ultra-violet light. We can all agree that zombies are cognoscente; just as we can all acknowledge that ultra-violet light does indeed exist. And though we can accept that these truths are true, doing so brings us no closer to perceiving that which we hopelessly cannot.
Dawn Ketzler was an art history major at Vassar College until her sophomore roommate Elizabeth, tragically, bit her in the neck. Her parents, though separated for some twelve years, were both very disappointed to hear of their daughter’s shortcomings.
Dawn had been a private Catholic schoolgirl since the age of six. She’d received the sacrament of communion, confessed tearfully to an elderly gentleman in a robe the following year, and been confirmed a soldier of Christ at the ripe age of eighteen. Her prospects were good.
And when she tearfully called her mother and then her father, via her step-mom, freshman year to tell them that pre-med needed to wait. That art history was her true calling. They listened. They understood. They knew Dawn and they knew she was unique. They knew that success isn’t measured in the good you do, but how good you do. And they didn’t want her to struggle. They wanted to see her succeed. And medicine was hard--too hard for their little girl.
But back to the bite, Dawn, upon sensing the bicuspids break the skin, ousted Elizabeth with a high heel to the temple. Tearfully, she sat sweating in her bottom bunk for the next hour as the transformation unfolded. The fever at last broke, and poor Dawn was no more.
When found two days later authorities were astonished to see that zombie Dawn had, rather than tirelessly searching for brains, painted a mural mimicking The Creation of Adam. The authorities, after putting zombie Dawn down, took pictures of the giant mural and filed away the findings at the local bureau of Unusual Zombie Occurrences.
It was thought strange by some that, despite the lack of electricity, many continued to crowd around their TV boxes. But after careful consideration by many thoroughly over-educated sociologists, all agreed that TVs, and TV couches, and TV coffee tables remained a valuable location for societal interaction. A verifiable watering hole if you will.
Some went as far as to hollow out the inside of their dead, pixilated televisions in order to host mock events. And it was not uncommon to hear: you best be coming over Friday for the game Bill! Or, did you catch that new episode of how I met your mother’s zombie last week Tina? And all were thankful for the excuse.
Often, gatherings were held for children so that they might have a safer space to enjoy puppet shows reenacting favorite episodes of Arthur, or Hey Arnold, or Wishbone. And all agreed that TV, or the lack thereof, was indeed a source of joy.
***
Which brings us to the most curious case of the TV zombie.
Robert Little, age 35, was known best for his avant-garde architectural design which, humbly, lined the alleyways and street corners of New New York. The designs, often cited as Gaudi-esque--or laughably gothic by some less appreciative natives--had become iconic in the years since the fall. And Little was widely recognized as a relevant and distinguished figurehead amongst his contemporaries. All of who shared in their abhorrence for pre-collapse ergonomic fetishes.
On Sunday, July 17th, Little was walking home from work. To his dismay and utmost surprise he discovered several horde members roaming the halls of his building. And quite unfortunately, counted several of his neighbors in horde company.
Little, being of sound mind and resources, did as most would. He barricaded his apartment door and prepared for a long game of solitaire. However, in his eagerness to play cards, Little forgot to deadbolt his door, which was a push bar rather than the more appropriate and ergonomic turn-knob.
All at once a score of zombies crashed through the jam and, in shock, caused Little to spill his freshly boiled spaghetti onto his easily burned hands. In rage, Little grabbed the nearest item, an ancient Sharp TV dating back to his college days, and brought down the bottom of the two by two television squarely on the closest zombies head.
The TV, now resting upon the shoulders of said zombie, attracted the attention of all other zombies present. They gazed dully at the blank, cracked screen. And the zombie, whose shoulders the set rested upon, seemed to turn as if addressing all other zombies present.
What a most unusual occurrence thought Robert Little as each forsaken began to leave the apartment following the TV headed zombie sheepishly. Once out on the street, the TV headed zombie attracted a great following and all forsaken sat in awe and wonder gazing up in entertainment at the spot where the face of their pixilated peer was now veiled.
Categories:
Blogger Don Juan made an interesting post a few weeks ago about
what it means to be living according to the seven characteristics of life
identified by scientists, and if zombies possess or are capable of such traits.
What is not quite included in these characteristics but important
nonetheless is spritus and anima.
Apparently these Latin words were once part of the medical
community and vocabulary. They were meant to name notions regarding one of the
many differences between a corpse and the living body, but more specifically
pertaining to how the corpse does not possess something the body of the person
once did: movement, a beating heart, or the intake of breath that carries the
belly, chest, or shoulders with it. Essentially, signs of life- but more. They
were meant to describe signs of an individual; the display of a lifetime of
experiences that condition and reflect a personality, mannerisms, expressions,
attitudes, sentiments, and all kinds of physical abilities and emotional
capacities that reveals themselves in every moment of being alive.
Right
now I’m reading “God’s Hotel” by Victoria Sweet, which is an autobiographical
account of her experience as a physician. In it, she describes the experience
of performing her first autopsy on Mr. Baker, someone she knew well, and how
“strangely disappointing” it was in that it was exactly like any other autopsy
she had performed. She thought it would be different because she knew him, and
that there was something to find in the autopsy that would be unique to him that
would verify that it was undeniably Mr. Baker she was looking at as opposed to
another textbook corpse. But there was not. Though he had a human body typical
of the average person, there was something missing that made his body and being
unique to him that was there when he was alive. She writes,
“Much later I learned that medicine had once had
a name for this, this something present in the living body but missing from the
corpse. Two names, actually. There was spiritus…the
breath, the regular, rhythmic breathing of the live body that is so shockingly
absent from the dead. Spiritus is what is exhaled in the last breath. And there
was anima. Usually translated as soul…anima is the invisible force that
animates the body, moves it, not only willfully but also unconsciously—all
those little movements that the living body makes all the time” (3).
She
goes on to discuss the terms absence in her career. “Anima, ancient medicine had observed, is just as absent from the
dead body as spritus. By the time
medicine got to me, however, words like spiritus
and anima had been banished from the
medical vocabulary” (3).
If
these terms were still relative to the medical and scientific community, how
would they fit into the seven characteristics of life? With their addition, how
would zombies fit into this criteria of what it means to be living? It depends
on the kind of zombies we’re talking about, but all of them exhibit movement,
or signs of anima. Zombies are commonly understood to be dead, as a corpse is,
yet a corpse lacks spiritus and anima, unlike zombies. What does the presence
of anima indicate about possible signs of spiritus? Something equivalent to our
need to breathe? What does it indicate about being dead or alive? How much and
what kind of anima are signs of being alive?
If
Mr. Baker had gone all zombie on Victoria Sweet during the autopsy, I think it
would have provided an interesting plot development in her book. Maybe they
would have performed an exorcism on him, and I’d know more Latin terms to pretentiously
sprinkle throughout this blog post as a result. But if Mr. Baker had exhibited
zombie-like anima, he would not have been identified as a corpse....where am I going with all of this? Something along the lines of the long debated, what does it mean to be alive or dead, and which are ZOMBIES?!?!?!?!?!
*Also I went ahead and decided that even though "zombies" were not known to Latins, if they were, they'd be called "zombus", eh? right?
Yahoo answers actually says that as "zombies" often translate to "living dead" the latin for it would just be "mortuus vivens." I'm gonna trust yahoo answers on this one, but keep my oh so witty and wild post title...
*Also I went ahead and decided that even though "zombies" were not known to Latins, if they were, they'd be called "zombus", eh? right?
Yahoo answers actually says that as "zombies" often translate to "living dead" the latin for it would just be "mortuus vivens." I'm gonna trust yahoo answers on this one, but keep my oh so witty and wild post title...
Categories:
Very Appreciative:
First off I would like to thank everyone who filled out a bracket, without your responses I would have had a much tougher time in completing the Zombie Royal Rumble. To be honest I had my own personal favorites but it was really helpful to see what the rest of you thought in assessing the fighting prowess of the many characters we have seen along the way this semester. But enough with the pleasantries, because if you are reading this blog post you are doing it for one simple reason, to see who came out on top and won the first, and most likely last, Zombie Royal Rumble.
First off I would like to thank everyone who filled out a bracket, without your responses I would have had a much tougher time in completing the Zombie Royal Rumble. To be honest I had my own personal favorites but it was really helpful to see what the rest of you thought in assessing the fighting prowess of the many characters we have seen along the way this semester. But enough with the pleasantries, because if you are reading this blog post you are doing it for one simple reason, to see who came out on top and won the first, and most likely last, Zombie Royal Rumble.
The Results:
We had a number of good contestants, I
know because I made the bracket and because of that fact every single
pairing had at least one victory. I found this kind of suprising due to
some of the heavy favorites they were competing against. It is
important to note moving forward that there were 24 completely filled out brackets.
Enjoy!
1st round Results
“Quarter Finals”
Baron Samedi & Ted (7)
V.
Lizzy Bennett and Zombie Ninja (17)
*This was one of the better first round match ups with Lizzy Bennett and her Zombie Ninja defeating the Baron
and “Ted” 17-7. While in the grand scheme of the Zombie Royal
Rumble this advanced the characters from Pride and Prejudice and
Zombies, those who voted for
Baron Samedi and Ted tended to think so highly of this pairing that
7 out of 7 times they went on to the finals and out of those, 3 times
they went on to win the whole shebang.
Julie
and R (14)
V.
Sloane
and Lily (9)
*This
was the closest of all the match ups with Julie and R prevailing in
this match up 14-9. Important tidbits to this match up were the fact
that both pairings were deemed so abysmal by one bracket maker that
they simply put “Neither”. If you notice there were only 23 that
counted for this particular face-off. Of those 23 brackets only 1 had
either pairing making it out of the 2nd
round. This person, who chose Julie and R, felt so strongly in their
abilities that they had them winning it all. Based on all the
information I collected it could be argued that Sloane and Lily were
the worst team in the competition. While later results may prove that
another pairing was statistically less successful, they most
certainly had a more worthy adversary than Julie and R.
Carl
and Zombie Girl (23)
V.
Mark
Spitz and HR Lady (1)
Carl,
the murderous murder that he is and his zombie “aid” just
absolutely killed it in this match up. It wasn't even close. If I were
plotting this for a statistics project the one loss would be thrown
out most likely on account of it being an outlier. He's a class
favorite and it shows here as Mark Spitz and his HR lady didn't
really stand a chance. I expected this, heck I even changed around
the format of the bracket so I not to allow Carl to demolish anyone I
liked.
Shaun
and Ed (18)
V.
Okie
and Sumatra (6)
I love
Shaun of the Dead and it appears some other people in the class do
too. This was a pretty comfortable victory for the two buddies from
the U.K. I would imagine the ease to which Sumatra is distracted by
little wieners had something to do with their lack of victories here.
2nd
Round Results
“Semi-Finals”
“Semi-Finals”
(Scores
are no longer out of 24 due to the fact that not all people voted for
these pairings in the previous round, never the less I was able to
determine a victor)
Lizzy
Bennett and Zombie Ninja (15)
V.
Julie
and R (1)
I
basically already explained these results earlier, when I said that
only one person felt compelled to vote for anyone who was in our
closest match up. Clearly the people of Z is For Zombies
feel much more confident in a boot wearing killing machine and a
ninja zombie rather than two 20 something kids fueled by love.
From the beginning this had all the makings of a Carl-type matchup.
Carl
and Zombie Girl (17)
V.
Shaun
and Ed (5)
While
it wasn't as much of a blowout as his first round knockout, Carl and
his Zombie partner still had a relatively easy time with Queen loving
chaps form across the pond. I wasn't happy to see them go, but what
can you do when facing such a powerful foe. Although they lost in the match up, 3 brackets had Shaun and Ed winning the championship.
Final
Round “Championship”
(Again
the scores have decreased due to how the votes from the previous
round played out)
Lizzy
Bennett and Zombie Ninja (7)
V.
Carl
and Zombie Girl (8)
This
was kind of exciting as I totaled these up. I knew it was going to
be close but I never would have expected just how close. The finish
was even tighter than the score dictates due to the fact that I had
to break a tie of 7-7. I wanted to refrain from biasing the vote but
when I tallied everything up you guys had produced a tie so I had
to do something. So I voted, and I went with my gut and Carl and the
Zombie girl won. I think their victory is a testament to just how
crazy we deem that cowboy hat wearing deranged youth.
Again
I'd like to thank everyone that voted. You helped make this a more
fun process and gave me a lot to think about as I wrote up the
actual sequence of events.
-Thundergun Out!
Categories:
At first I even kind of enjoyed it. The dreams were fun, and
I felt like Dale from the Walking Dead, as I mowed down zombies left and right
with Jedi-like precision. As the semester progressed however, the dreams just
kept coming and zombies just got more and more difficult to kill. Soon I was
having my brain eaten basically every night as the zombies went from slow
moving ‘chumps’ to swift and intelligent brain munchers. At its worst, the
zombies evolved into a flesh-hungry creature that could communicate with other
zombies, but worse than this, they were able to remove their brain and still
survive. I can remember quite vividly one instance where the zombie did this
and my numerous shotgun shells proved useless as he waved the brain around like
some sort of demented carnival game. So I was dying in my dreams with
regularity and every time I died I woke suddenly, sometimes covered in sweat
and other times feeling for my head to make sure it was all still intact. Needless
to say the nightly occurrence got old kind of quick.
Since this last occurrence I have vowed to take back my
dreams. No longer will I allow these undead a-holes to invade my precious
slumber. I have taken a number of steps to ensure this happens. First off, no
more thoughts of zombie defense. While this proved difficult to just ‘turn off’
after three plus months of doing so, I was able to make this happen after
realizing how unlikely it will be that I will ever have to use these POA’s. The
second thing I did was to refrain from reading zombie material within 3 hours
of bedtime. This step was significantly easier to follow through with compared
to the first one. The last phase of ‘Operation Eradicate the Zombies’ came down
to my choice of Netflix show I watched as I drifted off to sleep each night. As
fun as it would have been to fight zombies with Special Agent Jack Bauer, the television
program 24 had to go. All of the
gunfire and dramatic music pumping out of my Mac each night could have easily
contributed to the terrors that were going on in my head. So I swapped out Kiefer
Sutherland et al. and went with an array of different comedies including South
Park, Its Always Sunny and The Office.
*The changes have helped. I haven’t had a dream with zombies
in it in almost a month and I couldn’t be happier about it. Now I can get back
to my 8 hours and 40 beautiful minutes of rest each night.
Categories:
In all the literature we have read, along with the movies we have watched their have been some characters that make it through the zombie apocalypse and others who don’t. This brings me to the question “would I make it in a zombie apocalypse?” Obviously there are several factors that play a role, such as, “Where I am located? Who am I with? The type of zombies I am up against? What weapons I have?” If we were to say I have moderate resources with all these and going up against moderate speed zombies I think it would be very difficult to survive. I would say I am fairly clever and a good athlete, which are both major proponents in survival but during a zombie apocalypse there is just too much potential for things to go wrong. The fact of the matter is, the zombies so often predict what you are forced to do. Whether you are on an island or in a school, the zombies create situations of isolation which lead to lack of resources and problems within the groups. In order to be successful I think the group is essential, if you are around people you trust and are helpful it brings up ones chances of survival immensely. With that said, during an apocalypse if you are not with your loved ones (usually the ones you trust) there is always going to be that want to go out and find them, which creates extremely dangerous situations. A zombie apocalypse I think comes down to cleverness and luck. I think some individuals can create schemes to make it through but there is a huge proponent of just being lucky.
[...]
Categories:
In all the literature we have read, along with the movies we have watched their have been some characters that make it through the zombie apocalypse and others who don’t. This brings me to the question “would I make it in a zombie apocalypse?” Obviously there are several factors that play a role, such as, “Where I am located? Who am I with? The type of zombies I am up against? What weapons I have?” If we were to say I have moderate resources with all these and going up against moderate speed zombies I think it would be very difficult to survive. I would say I am fairly clever and a good athlete, which are both major proponents in survival but during a zombie apocalypse there is just too much potential for things to go wrong. The fact of the matter is, the zombies so often predict what you are forced to do. Whether you are on an island or in a school, the zombies create situations of isolation which lead to lack of resources and problems within the groups. In order to be successful I think the group is essential, if you are around people you trust and are helpful it brings up ones chances of survival immensely. With that said, during an apocalypse if you are not with your loved ones (usually the ones you trust) there is always going to be that want to go out and find them, which creates extremely dangerous situations. A zombie apocalypse I think comes down to cleverness and luck. I think some individuals can create schemes to make it through but there is a huge proponent of just being lucky.
[...]
Categories:
SCENE I
[A forensics laboratory in Northern Ireland. Two anthropologists stand over an operating table. The light is interrogating. The backdrop is dim and the bay windows dark. One figure is male, the other female. The decrepit mass on the table resembles a skeleton hide.]
SCIENTIST Scalpel.
ASSISTANT Doctor?
SCIENTIST Yes, Laura?
ASSISTANT The spec. data indicates dairy and meat digestion, which corroborates our highborn hypothesis.
SCIENTIST Further testing is needed for conformation Laura.
ASSISTANT Rory, we are so close. It’s all here. God willing--it’s all in front of us.
SCIENTIST Have you read Aeschylus?
ASSISTANT Don’t lecture me Rory. The nails are filed. The hair is gelled with French oils. The skin is laced with lavender extract. The bowels are ritualistically dismembered. This man was a Brahman, or a Druid, or even a King! A King Rory! Imagine that! The implications--think of the implications.
SCIENTIST Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart. And in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.
ASSISTANT I don’t believe in God.
SCIENTIST Do you know why my parents named me Rory?
ASSISTANT No I’ve never known.
SCIENTIST My namesake was the last of the Irish Kings. Long after the high kings at Tara--long after the extinction of the giant wolves--and long before my lineage could possibly be traced. We are the descendents--the bastards--of god-kings who spat in the face of Christian Gods and worshipped the bogs they crawled out from.
[The scene fades to black.]
SCENE II
[The stage is suddenly illuminated exposing a stone cavern ordained with megaliths--
each baring an intricate carving. Three blood-filled cauldrons rest beneath three
archways exiting the tomb temple.]
KING Bring him forward!
[Three hooded figures drag forward the tortured body of a richly clad clansman.]
HERETIC Vile! Unclean! Usurper of my father’s throne!
KING Silence doomed one. God has spoken.
HERETIC You desecrate the stone throne. You, who would call yourself God and King of men, you that dare the slave come hither? Covered with an antic face. With no fear or scorn at our solemnity. By the stock and honor of my kin, I’ll see you struck dead from this life or the next. In dirt or pine, from the soil I’ll dry your roots and poison your herds. I’ll famine your slaves and watch from below, as you too are unseated! I’ll greet you with open arms and the embrace of a fervent worm--eager to digest.
KING Flesh-eater you will not be given the ritual of Passover. Take him to the bogs, make him a eunuch, tie weights to his limbs and feed him to the sludge of the earth. Forever he shall rot--till the very ends of time.
HERETIC I curse you! You and your misbegotten sons of whores! I’ll see you doomed for this and I will rise again! I’ll eat the flesh of false kings and bastard children! I’ll return for mine! A curse on you and all who call you true King! I’ll haunt you and yours hereafter, till the very end of time.
KING [betraying a hint of fear]
Cut out his tongue.
[Scene fades as HERETIC is carried away convulsing in rage.]
Categories:
Didn’t mean to disregard the final post and so it goes. I also wasn’t really sure where to take this; we’ve literally covered everything related to zombies that I can think of. Then I remembered the one problem/question/whatever I’ve always had with the zombie genre that no one seems to be concerned with: zombie teeth. Considering that the archetypical zombie spends his, or her, time preoccupied with thoughts of human flesh and brains it’s only logical to assume that they would need a sturdy set of chompers to get the job done. But wait, zombies are in a constant state of putrefaction so wouldn’t that apply to their teeth as well? I’ve asked this question to a number of individuals, both z-classmates and random non-classmates, and found that no one else seems to care. Brutal. Even so, I remain dedicated to uncovering the mystery behind zombie teeth…a seemingly impossible task considering that zombies aren’t real (#nooffense). Naturally, I started with google. The results were less than stellar, not yielding much beyond costume zombie teeth and DIY YouTube videos. I pushed on and found The Federal Vampire and Zombie Agency with an entire section dedicated to “The Science of Zombies.” Interesting (enough) stuff.
Here’s a picture of the zombie jaw:
Normal jaw on the left; zombie jaw on the right (with a larger jawbone and thicker muscle). Allegedly, “Important modifications occur to the zombie jaw. Extra bone is deposited on the lower jaw to form an attachment point for larger chewing muscles. These adaptations enable zombies to bite through skull and bone and get at the pillars of their diet: brains and bone marrow.” Wow, cool. I decided to believe that this was possible…I have little to no evidence to the contrary and I don’t know anything about biology (human or otherwise) so I can’t hypothesize.
Beyond that, “zombie teeth are not adapted to the powerful forces exerted on them by the jaw. Teeth crack and fall out, and the holes they leave behind leak sludge-like zombie blood. Eventually, all their teeth are gone, and a zombie is forced to chew with its exposed jawbones.” Wow, neat. Again, I decided to believe FVZA. I suppose it makes sense using the typical representation of zombies, considering that their super-human strength and indifference or insensitivity to pain would allow them to disregard the whole teeth situation. Unless they do care, which they might, but that’s not what this is about. Humans can already do a great deal of damage with their teeth, so it doesn’t seem like a stretch to imagine zombified versions biting through skin and skull with equal success. They would simply chomp down full force on whatever body part they can, until the teeth, or exposed jaw for the toothless, connects with the opposite side.
I tried to find other “credible” resources to answer this question, but that wasn’t a thing. So I’m left with what's above as the only seemingly plausible, non-Yahoo user generated response to my question. I would be lying if I said I was satisfied, but there it is. Zombies have teeth, unless they don’t, and either way they’ll try to bite you and it will hurt.
[...]
Here’s a picture of the zombie jaw:
Normal jaw on the left; zombie jaw on the right (with a larger jawbone and thicker muscle). Allegedly, “Important modifications occur to the zombie jaw. Extra bone is deposited on the lower jaw to form an attachment point for larger chewing muscles. These adaptations enable zombies to bite through skull and bone and get at the pillars of their diet: brains and bone marrow.” Wow, cool. I decided to believe that this was possible…I have little to no evidence to the contrary and I don’t know anything about biology (human or otherwise) so I can’t hypothesize.
Beyond that, “zombie teeth are not adapted to the powerful forces exerted on them by the jaw. Teeth crack and fall out, and the holes they leave behind leak sludge-like zombie blood. Eventually, all their teeth are gone, and a zombie is forced to chew with its exposed jawbones.” Wow, neat. Again, I decided to believe FVZA. I suppose it makes sense using the typical representation of zombies, considering that their super-human strength and indifference or insensitivity to pain would allow them to disregard the whole teeth situation. Unless they do care, which they might, but that’s not what this is about. Humans can already do a great deal of damage with their teeth, so it doesn’t seem like a stretch to imagine zombified versions biting through skin and skull with equal success. They would simply chomp down full force on whatever body part they can, until the teeth, or exposed jaw for the toothless, connects with the opposite side.
I tried to find other “credible” resources to answer this question, but that wasn’t a thing. So I’m left with what's above as the only seemingly plausible, non-Yahoo user generated response to my question. I would be lying if I said I was satisfied, but there it is. Zombies have teeth, unless they don’t, and either way they’ll try to bite you and it will hurt.
Categories:
Hello Hello,
I'll be 'presenting' this story today. Thought if you were interested in the presentation it might be worth a read.
Cheers,
W.
[...]
I'll be 'presenting' this story today. Thought if you were interested in the presentation it might be worth a read.
Cheers,
W.
For
Emily A, whose faith inspires even the faithless.
Every
Sunday, the doors to St. Michael’s church in Amherst, Massachusetts
are open. Inside its doors stands an armed security guard, the
mercenary type, the only type of guns money can buy this late in the
Z outbreak. The guard checks me as I walk through the wooden doors.
“Name?”
“Dr.
William F. Taylor,” I respond.
“Bites?”
he asks curtly, sweeping my frail frame with his eyes. It's been a
long time since I've had a full meal, and MREs are expensive.
“None.”
The mercenary runs a handheld metal device in front of my forehead.
His hand does not shake, this moment is usually quite tense. His
other is motionless on the grip of his modified AK-47. The device
clicks, and a light blinks green.
“Clear,”
the guard tells me. He has just checked for normal temperature. The
bitten will be feverish, you see. The undead will be cold, the last
heat from their bodies bleeds out a long time before they reanimate.
Dogs, of course, can sniff an infected from 200 yards away, but
churches could never afford a dog. The good dogs were seized and
militarized during the first surges of the outbreak. Using men is
cheaper as there was a surplus of ex-Iraq, ex-Afghanistan
30-somethings. The men came with the bonus of providing someone to
talk to when things got lonely. Although, for most mercenaries, dogs
might have been better conversation.
“Thank
you,” I tell him as I step to his right-hand side into the empty
church.
“Say,
what’s a medical type doing in a place like this?”
“Are
my kind any less in need of your services?” I respond.
“It’s
just... there haven’t been many in here, since the outbreak.”
“I
just need to discuss something with the man who is in that box.”
“It’s
not really for discussions. It’s a confessional.”
“I
am aware of what the box is called, thank you.” I proceed past the
mercenary and towards the box. I did not mean to be rude, but
sometimes rudeness is unavoidable.
“Suit
yourself,” the guard says to my back. “Prick,” I hear him
whisper under his breath. Dogs didn't whisper insults at your back.
Dogs wouldn't steal your food or your weapons in the night.
Mercenaries are all the same. Putrid humor and a lack of wit. No
contemplation of the situation at hand. It’s only the gun pointed
at the infected and the click of the trigger. No future past the
muzzle flash.
I once heard a hired gun teaching a man how to fire his AK early in
the outbreak, ‘you count out while you shoot:
die-mother-fucker-die, and then their fucking brain is on the wall,
boom!' He laughed, 'you try-'
I
pity
these men.
I
open the door and sit down in the confessional. The priest slides the
screen open. “Yes, my child?” the priest asks. I knew he was
going to say it, though I’ve never been to a confessional before.
You couldn’t have paid me to be here before the outbreak. I find
the whole situation of confession to be unavoidably creepy. Something
or other about a healthy dose of Judaism in the younger years mixed
with an atheist’s heart.
“Father?”
I anxiously say, feeling the sheer religiosity of the pseudonym.
“Yes,
my child?” I can see him through the cage. It has not been repaired
since at least the start of the outbreak. It seems as though several
people have tried to punch their way through it. Hopefully they were
still people at that point, but that’s what I’m here to discuss.
“I have a question,” I continue.
“Anything,
my son,” the priest responds. At least I assume he’s a priest. I
suppose it could be another ‘die-mother-fucker-die’ behind this
cage. I trust him. I’m not sure why.
“This
plague-,” I begin but he cuts me off:
“How
can God allow it?”
“Well,
yes.” I am stunned at this. There must have been others with this
question. Thinking on it now, what a fool I was thinking no idiot
would run to the church with this question. It took me months to work
up the courage to come into this place. How many thousands and
millions died in those months? How many mothers, and sisters, and
fathers passed? How many best friends and lovers? Uncountable
cherished reanimated corpses had been put down like rabid family
dogs, and here I am, in a confessional, thinking I’m the first
person to ask a priest what in the fuck is happening. Idiot.
“Have
you lost anyone dear?” he asks in his gruff voice.
“I
have. Emily,” I
knew her while I was in school, the sporty, yet academic type. She
went to our campus church nearly every weekend. She was devoted; I
think I might be here for her, because she can’t be. She told me
once that she believed wholeheartedly in the church, but that the
“levels of childhood indoctrination can be a bit creepy.” I miss
her dearly, even if it was just to have someone to disagree with.
The
priest waits a few extra beats before saying, “Blessed are you who
weep now, for you will laugh.”
“Is
that scripture?”
“I
know that it can be hard to see, but you cannot look for the living
among the dead. And, yes, that was scripture. Has it been a long time
since your last confession?”
“It
has,” I respond. I wasn’t going to tell him anything about my
background, I’m here to get an answer.
“How
long has it been?”
“Well,
I was in a church once, ten years ago.” It was true. I had been in
a church ten years previously for a funeral. Another old school
friend had passed. No one particularly important to me. Just a man
that I had come to pay my respects to. Since then, churches had
always seemed ominous, like the place where death lived. So many
candles, crying family and friends, stained glass with screaming
prophets; shocking that anyone comes to these places for guidance.
“Not
a religious upbringing?” He asks pensively.
“You
could say that.”
“I
take it that you lost Emily during the outbreak then?”
He
knows. Of course he knows. He knows that I would have been to a
church for Emily’s funeral, had she passed before the outbreak.
There aren’t funerals the same way anymore. It was a clear, cold
night in April. When you put someone down, it’s just not the same.
They were already dead when you put them down. You were just
finishing the job God couldn’t. I don't think Emily would have seen
it this way. “I’m not here to talk about her.”
“No,
you came here for an answer. I’m afraid to say that I only have to
give you what the Lord has seen fit to give me.” He sounds firm,
even in telling me he doesn’t know what to tell me.
“And
what is that, exactly?”
“Scripture,
my son-” I can hear his smile through the cage. I suppose it’s
more of a veil, but I’m glad it’s obstructing my vision. I don’t
want to see the smug smile I know must be on his face. A doctor, in
the end of days, coming to a priest. I’ve spent all of my time, all
of my working life trying to prolong life in defiance of everything
that he believes. I
remember the day the deer left the town, Amherst was the hub of the
intellectual community in Massachusetts, but it never was overcrowded
enough to push the natural life away. The deer left first. They must
have seen the bright apocalypse headlights cresting the hill, more
dangerous than our cars. They hightailed it out of town, two by two,
on the same roads they used to die crossing. Smug
god-fearing fuck Noah was right. “It has to do with the earliest
conception of man.” I had tuned him out momentarily, his words
break up my brief daydream. “There was a race of men that populated
the earth before what we would call, ‘ours,’ These people were
washed away in the flood, which the Lord helped Noah to prepare for.”
“Oh
yeah, the plagues?” I ask.
“I
believe you’re referring to Moses.”
“Sure,”
I respond, “so the flood?”
“Yes,
of course, the Lord was sorry that he had made humankind on the
earth, and it grieved him to his heart.”
“He
had a heart? Isn’t he incorporeal, ethereal, something?”
“You
have a heart, don’t you?” He asks me, I can smell the trap.
“His
image, yeah, I get it,” I went to college at a prestigious
university. I am a doctor, I don’t know much about scripture, but
that was a softball. I
used to work in politics, but a colleague, in one of his brief
moments of sobriety, had told me that my heart had not been hard
enough for the political world. “Try non-profits, they'll treat you
better,” he had said. I had, I had transitioned from the political
sphere into the non-profit universe for a time. The books on my one
lonely shelf had collected dust for a time, and my mind had numbed,
so I went to medical school instead.
“Good,
my son,” he responds.
“So
the lord just blots out people that piss him off?” I ask. I realize
this wasn’t the nicest way I could have raised this question. “Like
the plagues?”
“But
it is more than a plague, William, it is a rebirth.” I’m not sure
what to make of this, so I take a breath and wait. I wonder how he
knew my name, maybe he can hear everything that happens in the church
through these thin walls. “Are you able to reach the Bible on your
right hand side?” He asks the question, knowing that I can.
“Yes.”
I hold the Bible in my hands. It’s old and worn. It looks as if
it’s been handled by a thousand different people in this box since
the outbreak. This was a thing of beauty once.
“Could
you open it to Genesis 1:26?” I open the Bible too quickly, and
find myself in Deuteronomy. I back track, and find the passage the
man has told me to look for.
“Alright,
here it is.”
“Could
you read verse 26, please?” He’s treating me like a child. He’s
treating me like one of the sheep he led before the outbreak. I’m
no sheep, but I do what he says, I came here for his advice, I’ll
play along.
“‘Then
God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, according to our
likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and
over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild
animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon
the earth.”’” I pause, “Shall I continue?”
“No,
that’s far enough. What does dominion mean to you, William?”
“Rulership,”
I respond.
“Indeed,
rulership, but more than that, does dominion not also imply
stewardship? Can a king rule over a population that he lets starve?”
“No,
I guess he can’t,” I say to the screen.
“Our
kind had a task in this world. We were to be the stewards over this
earth and all the things within it-”
“We’re
doing alright,” I cut him off by saying.
“We
did fine?” He asks rhetorically, “let me ask you this, do you
remember children on reality television, William?”
“Of
course I do.” Reality television had been a huge part of
entertainment before the outbreak. Even though I couldn’t bring
myself to watch the smut, you couldn’t entirely escape it.
“I
want you to imagine the earth as a child, on a reality television
show.”
“Alright,”
I respond, although I couldn’t divine the slightest indication of
where this was headed.
“Do
you think the parents, the stewards, of these reality children were
protecting them? Were they teaching any lessons?”
“How
to make money on television,” I say, and chuckle. I imagine that
I’ve evened the repartee score with this quip. The man through the
veil doesn’t seem to have registered my verbal jab.
“Some
of them did, yes,” he continues. “But with that lesson came
avarice. These children were taught vanity. These children were
taught to hate, to cheat, to do whatever they need to do in order to
win these faux contests. The children, having received these lessons
were irrevocably changed. Would you call this responsible parenting?
Would you say that these children were inspired to become responsible
parents themselves? Is this model sustainable?”
“Well,
no, of course it’s not. But that’s reality television; one in a
million children gets on a show like that.” I can’t say that the
effect of the metaphor is lost on me, the shows were shameless, but
it does seem like a strange connection to be drawing.
“Now,
imagine the Lord, looking down upon the species that he gave one task
to. These people with whom he entrusted his world glorifying this
sort of behavior in one another. The vainest were the most coveted,
the greedy were exalted, the heaviest exploiters became the role
models. It was an unsustainable model, and God stepped in. If you
were a parent, could you say that you’d have acted any
differently?” His earlier questions now make sense, the father
meant to get me to say that I’d not be able to find a flaw in the
logic of God.
“I
would never kill a child,” I say.
“Do
you have children of your own, William?”
“No,”
I respond. “Never really had time for a wife, I guess.” I say
hoping that the lie will not register with the father.
The
father takes a deep breath behind the screen and continues, “Then
how could you possibly understand? This is not one child’s
disobedience, but a whole race of your own begotten fundamentally
corrupting all that you set out to build.”
“So,
this is the new flood?” I ask, although I think I know that this is
how this conversation will end.
“No,
it’s not.”
“What?”
I say breathlessly, I am perplexed. Everything to this point had
aligned to the flood being the conclusion of the father’s line of
logic.
“You
came in here to ask why the Lord wouldn’t step in to stop this
plague. I am unaware of, forgive me for an old man’s attempt at
humor, the genesis of this scourge. I can however, recognize the
reasoning behind our Father for not stopping it.” He finishes, and
silence fills the box for a full five seconds before I respond.
“Is
there a hope for life in this world?”
“You’re
in this box, are you not?” I can hear the grin again, even through
the veil. But this isn’t funny, and at this point I’m tired of
being batted around.
“You
know what I’m trying to say,” I spit towards the obscured man.
“Of
course I do,” he responds. “But, I’ve given you all that I can
on the subject.” There is silence again between us. I stand up,
furious, knocking my head against the top of the confessional. “Stay
healthy, and remember Matthew
6:34,
““do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of
its own. Today's trouble is enough for today.””
God bless you, William Taylor,” with these words he exhales
heavily. I stride quickly from the confessional. I say in a hushed
whisper under my breath,
“Prick,”
this word wasn’t as quiet as I had intended. I’m sure he could
hear me curse him, but I’m also certain that I couldn’t care any
less at this moment. 'Don't worry about the trouble of tomorrow until
tomorrow?' How in the fuck am I supposed to sleep soundly knowing
that there are packs of the dead wandering around, waiting for me to
let my guard down? 'Reality TV?' That was hackneyed, that was
childish. As I’m walking towards the doors of the church, I see the
mercenary again. He holds out a packet of American Spirit Yellow
cigarettes.
“Fancy
one for the road?” He asks, grinning idiotically at me. He’s
taunting me. He knows that I’m a doctor, that I’ll refuse, that
I’ll tell him off for wasting what little life is left in this
place, and that he’ll get to deliver some two-cent quip about
enjoying what little we have.
“Love
one. Will you join me?” I respond, and his eyes light up. We walk
together outside of the church, and he slings his modified AK over
his shoulder to accept his pack of smokes. He hands me a lighter.
It’s a zippo that has faux gold plating. Engraved on the outside of
the lighter are the words ‘O for a Muse of Fire.’ Having a zippo
with engravings isn’t an odd occurrence, everyone and their mothers
had one from the beginning of the outbreak. I
remember during the first weeks of the outbreak, the companies which
produced lighters would engrave your loved one’s names into your
device. Some things seem so meaningless, and yet, having a piece of a
loved one close to you in times of struggle means the world.
“O
for a Muse of Fire?” I ask him, not knowing what to expect.
“Henry
V,
never got to it?” He asks in a matter-of-fact manner.
“I’m
sure I must have in undergrad, but no, I can’t say that I remember
it.” I can’t believe I’m being intellectually out-shined by a
mercenary, I suppose it’s a day for firsts. “Where did you serve,
sir?”
“I
didn’t,” he responds.
“You
didn’t serve anywhere?” I ask.
“I
taught, I was an English teacher,” he says, puffing away heavily.
“A
teacher... how did you wind up in this line of work?”
“Everyone
has to do their part, right? I taught Shakespeare, mostly, but some
Sunday school classes here and there as well. That life’s over,
though. We all do what we have to do. There’s got to be somebody to
put these Z’s down, and folks seem to still like coming to this
place.” He takes a puff on his American Spirit.
“This
church is still well visited?” I ask.
“You
get to the Book of Daniel, with the man in the box?”
“No,”
I tell him.
“““There
shall be a time of anguish... but at that time your people shall be
delivered... Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall
awake.”” Paraphrasing a bit there, but this used to be my thing.
I think that's the gist of it,” He says.
“And
that's about the infected, not a judgement?” I ask him.
“Of
course it's about judgement, but people come here to be comforted,
not to hear the truth. But it's never been about the truth, you see.
This is all they have, and if it keeps them alive, I don't begrudge
them for it. That's why I'm here,” he takes one last puff on his
American Spirit, and stomps it out on the pavement.
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