The Shambling Menace

Okay, I admit it. I have a deep-seated irrational fear of zombies. I know, I know, they’re fictional and scientifically improbable if not impossible—but if they were real, the situation is ghastly. There’s something about the zombie apocalypse that invokes a more holistic fear than your typical doomsday scenario: Even beyond the devouring horde’s exponential increase, there’s the constant risk of infection coupled with melee combat, not to mention the psychological terror of watching your loved ones become the very monsters from which you flee.

I think that’s what gets to me the most: The necessity of pushing past the ever-present fear that spittle will somehow enter my bloodstream while dispatching zombies face-to-face, and having to coldly kill somebody who might have been warm in your arms mere hours before. Not surprisingly, my overactive imagination causes this concern to manifest in some interesting ways.

One of our animal rooms has a locked antechamber, and I often imagine that when I open the second door I will be greeted by an inhuman moan as one of the animal care staff, turned, clumsily rises from the floor. This is especially salient when the room is on a reverse (dark during the day) light cycle; I half-expect to turn on the red lamp just in time to see a hungry face approaching. Hey, these things have been known to start in animal facilities.

There’s also the shower, where I worry that the attack will come immediately after I close my eyes to wash my face. I will hear the sound and be confronted with my vulnerability; naked, weaponless, and with a zombie guarding the only exit. Around the house, Rachel has been known to taunt me by sneaking up and lunging for my neck, growling; I do not find this amusing.

These kinds of psychological aspects are explored by Max Brooks (a bona fide Anne Rice of zombie lore)  in World War Z. It’s a book that sounds like it’s going to be action theater a la Resident Evil, but in actuality invites you to share in the physical and mental horrors individual people experience in such a scenario. While it has a bit more of the YA romance threaded in, The Forest of Hands and Teeth has a similar bent. With the addition of fast zombies that arise when the neighborhood is low on undead, Carrie Ryan details a world far more fragmented. It’s an excellent example of what could happen without the rapid implementation of ruthless-but-necessary defense strategies.

Setting aside some of the more exotic über-mutants to focus on average specimens, I think Half-Life‘s headcrab zombies are the worst of the bunch. Although the host retains some level of consciousness while headcrab’d, once the binding is secure it becomes unable to survive without the parasite. Unlike regular viral zombies, where the infected are already brain-dead, you are faced with a human remnant trapped in a grotesque shell. Though it cries in agony for help, death is its only escape.

This week I’ve been reading The Dead-Tossed Waves, the sequel to Forest. Due to heightened sense of alert such stories engender, I am showering with one eye open, the soapy sting in my eyes a small price to pay for an extra moment to react. It’s okay, people laughed at Louis, too. There is a guide to being prepared, the tenants of which should be committed to memory. You can find it at your local library where I did: the non-fiction section.