The Psychology of the Zombie

(why they think like they do)

So who’s turn is it for water? No one volunteered. No one ever volunteered. Just like no one volunteered to go on a food haul, to check the windows and doors, to find anything to burn. It seemed like all we ever did was talk shit to each other.

“We don’t know that they’re all the same. There are good people and bad people. Maybe there are good zs and bad zs.”

That’s Steven, but everyone calls him Spike. Smart, serious, a good one, a good survivor.

“The only good z is a dead z.”

That’s Billy, otherwise known as Dog. Always shooting his mouth off.

“They’re all dead, asshole. So you’re saying zs are good.”

That voice right there is Tammy’s. She’s Spike’s girl. Another good one. Believe me, we’re all good ones, even Dog. But surviving for this long can make you somewhat … quirky.

“Shut-up.”

“Well all I was saying is maybe they can still think? Maybe they’re trapped inside themselves, watching all this happen like they’re front row in a goddamn movie theatre and there’s nothing they can do.”

“That’s horrible.” Tammy keeps us straight, I swear. Sometimes I can’t take it when Spike gets all philosophical. Seems like he’s been doing it more and more lately.

“That’s why you’ve got to survive or just die. Become a z and who knows what you really are, or how much of you is still in there.”

“I’m telling you, ain’t nothing in the mind of a z.”

“Takes one to know one, huh Dog?”

“Fuck you.”

Drip, drip, drip. The same wet sound from somewhere near. Constant, irregular, a little slower than a heartbeat. Darkness. It always seemed dark lately. The fire had gone out but at least it didn’t feel cold.

“Any of y’all used to do drugs?”

That’s Woody. We don’t know his real name. In all honesty we don’t know a hot thing about him, but he’s saved our ass enough times that we know he’s a good one. Almost definitely. Probably.

“What?”

“Well I did.”

“Good for you.” Jeez, Dog. Let the guy say his piece and get it over with already. We all know what’s coming.

“And I know that if you take shit that gets you too far outta your mind, outta the place where you can think, see and, and reason, then, well your body tries to snap you out of it. You puke. You pass out. You die, even. Now imagine nothing can snap you out of it. Because those drugs were so far-out, so tripping-the-shit out of your goddam mind strong shit. And so your mind has nowhere to go. Nowhere to rest. No end game. And what happens? It breaks. That’s what’s causing this shit, this whole stinking outbreak, it’s the drugs, man. I’ve been saying that from the beginning. These kids have no anchor. Their minds got soft. We got weaker and the drugs got stronger. It all broke so now we’re paying for it. Look at us. We’re consuming ourselves.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

Drip, drip, drip. Woody is something else, he really is. What a mind fuck.

“Do you ever wonder if maybe there’s just one mind that controls them all? That they’re all linked somehow. Like with a signal or something.”

Spike’s starting with the z philosophy again. I swear to God it drives me crazy. If he put that brain towards getting us water, or food, or ammo, then, well, things would be better around here.

“Like a queen z.” Woody actually making sense for once.

“Nice.”

“You kill the queen you break the spell.”

“Shit, dude. Like the ice queen.”

“Huh?”

“Y’know, Narnia and shit. The wardrobe.” Yeah, sometimes Dog isn’t all trash talk.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Classic Tammy. The only thing she likes more than icing a z is cutting down Dog when he’s in full flow.

“You don’t remember that movie? There’s this queen — a real stone cold bitch — and she controls this world where every creature is under her spell. Just frozen in ice.”

“And what happens?” For once Dog has us all interested.

“Well these kids come along and waste her, break the spell. Free everything.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then Dog perks up.

“Show me queen z and I’ll break that bitch’s spell in half.”

“You’re forgetting the magic lion.” That’s Woody. You got to wonder what that guy’s on sometimes.

“What!?”

“The kids ride with this magic lion dude that helps them kill the queen.”

“Jeez I wonder what happened to all the lions?”

Don’t start, Spike, I swear. Shut. Up.

“Can a z kill a lion?”

“No way, man. Lions are too smart.”

“I tell you what happened to the lions.”

A pause. Woody’s loving this.

“Nothing. And you know why? Because what do they care about zs? Zs have done them a favour. No humans left to hunt them, or hunt the animals that they eat. Or destroy their prides and shit. It’s like I said. We’re consuming ourselves. Other species don’t give a shit.”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Can a z kill a monkey?”

“For sure.”

“No I mean like a big one. A gorilla or whatever.”

“Probably can if there’s like four or five of them.”

“Would a gorilla turn?”

“Huh?”

You know. They’re like related to humans. Our closest animal.”

“Woah. A gorilla z. Scary shit.”

Can we talk about something else?

OK who’s turn is it for water. Seriously. I’m thinking it. Everybody’s gotta be thinking it. Just no one’s saying it.

“I need new pants.”

“You and me both.”

Tammy’s been yammering on about getting new pants for ages. Talk about priorities.

“Why don’t you just do it already? There’s a GAP a block over. Only about a million zs in the way.” Ouch, Dog.

Drip, drip, drip. Darkness. Just us. Our bodies, in a circle on the floor. Spike, Dog, Woody, Tammy and me. I love these idiots. It’s crazy, really. The world is drowning in hell, but here with them, as long as we’re together, I feel kind of content, if you could call it that.

“Would you fuck a z for a million bucks?” Classic Dog right there. And no, it’s not the first time he’s asked this, or at least a variation of. Not the brightest conversational spark, our Dog, but he does try.

“What good would cash do me?” Spike, always the wise ass. But he’s got a point.

“OK, for a goddamn juicy steak and seasoned fries. And a rocket launcher.”

“I wouldn’t fuck you for all the steaks and rocket launchers on God’s green earth, Dog.” Man, Tammy loves to smoke that guy, sometimes I almost feel sorry for him. The worst part is I’m pretty sure they had a thing together, in the beginning. Right before Spike came onto the scene. I showed up later so I wasn’t there to see it, and they don’t ever talk about it, but I just get this gut feeling. Anyhow, thinking about the past times is a one-way ticket to going nuts. You only survive if you live in the now, always in the now, and watch out for your crew. First rule of surviving: accept reality; don’t try to fight it. Just roll with it.

“Shit! No! Wake up!”

Spike’s voice. He’s freaked about whatever again.

“Guys, something is fucked. Something isn’t right.”

“No shit, Einstein.”

“No, I was thinking, I was thinking, it’s not right. How long have we been holed up here? What are we still doing in this place? We need a plan and we need action. We’ve got to get organised, we need discipline because otherwise we’re not gonna make it.”

“Honey, relax.” Hell, Tammy’s voice is like magic I swear. Deep, even and soft like caramel.

“Everything is fine, it’s safe. We’re good here. It’s a good place to figure shit out. You always do this, you’re always trying to freak out and fuck shit up. Things are gonna be OK. We’ve got each other, you know that.”

No one else says anything. We slip gently back into our own thoughts. Time continues along like a ship without a crew. Sleep, wake, talk shit in the darkness, figure out our next move. Water would be a good start. And then food. And maybe get this fire started. But better check the windows and doors first before doing any of that. First rule of surviving: check windows and doors.

I’m pretty sure it didn’t used to be like this. Hope is a strange thing. Back then there were more survivors. We had others. I guess they kept moving. Groups break away, you know? Sometimes you keep going. Sometimes it just catches up with you, like waves washing away words in the sand. I wonder how those guys are doing now. I can’t really picture any of them. It’s like at some point everything got scrambled. At least we’ve got each other. Watching each other’s backs. Always.

Spike wakes up, he’s screaming. At least I sense that he is. “Open your eyes! It’s fucked! It’s totally fucked!” He sounds freaked out and it stirs me up ice cold.

Tammy’s voice. “Honey, you’re having dreams. Lie still. It’s OK. You’re here with us. Everything’s cool.”

“Just open your eyes-“

“And look at what honey? It’s just us.”

“Open your-“ Spike chokes back a sob.

“There, there. It’s OK.”

“Trapped.”

“We’re fine.”

Drip. Drip. Drip. Something Spike said but I can’t seem to hold it in my mind. Everything is such an effort, like the air has got denser, or there’s more gravity or some shit. Someone should really get water. If they don’t say anything, sure as hell I will. As soon as it gets light. It’s always so dark lately. I couldn’t see anything if I tried. But there are times when everything goes bright. Not light; just bright, like an explosion of white silence and it’s like I’m on fire, a cold fire that rages through my soul. I feel like I’m moving. And then the fire starts to go out again. The dial gets turned up and then back down. I get this from time to time but I don’t tell the others. I don’t want to scare them. Shit is scary enough here as it is.

“I need new pants.” Here we go. Tammy, always with the pants. Like she’s caught on loop. Yeah, there’s a GAP a block over, right?

“Only about a million zs in the way.”

This is crazy. If none of these clowns are getting water, looks like I’ll have to go. Just as soon as it gets light. First rule of surviving: don’t move about in the darkness.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Water. Water. The sound of it is like memory. A connection to something solid that sparks other sensations. Wetness. Taste. Thirst. Touch. It’s wet here. Under me. Under my body. My body. What was it Spike said? Open your eyes. I feel like I’m drifting off somewhere. I’m aware of the muscles in my face. Their tautness. I sense my self, the position of my body, on its back. I feel like links are being connected, dots are being joined. I open my eyes. That brightness. Pure white light.

Drip. Drip. My mind follows the sound, down. Out of the white, lolling shapes start to appear. Colours. Grey, brown, violet. It’s my own eviscerated entrails, spilling up and out around the cold leather flap of skin that once held in my stomach. I shift my body and it moves as a single mass. I shift again. Something crawls there. It’s the dream. I’m used to it now so it doesn’t scare me so much anymore. The worst part is that I’m all by myself. Completely alone. First rule of surviving: stick together.

“…maybe they can still think? Maybe they’re trapped inside themselves, watching all this happen like they’re front row in a goddamn movie theatre and there’s nothing they can do.”

There he goes again. Spike’s getting all philosophical. Man if that guy channelled those brainwaves into doing something useful for a change, I swear. You got to wonder what goes through his head when there are more important things to worry about around here.

“That’s why you’ve got to survive or just die. Become a z and who knows what you really are, or how much of you is still in there.”

Shit, not this again.

“Ain’t nothing in the mind of a z.”

Drip. Drip. Drip. I wonder if I’m actually hearing it or it’s just an echo in time. Woah, now I’m thinking like Spike. Which is no use to anyone when there’s more important things to think about. Like fetching water. What was it he always says? Open your eyes. Some good that’ll do. It’s always so dark lately.