Would a Zombie Eat a Turkey?

Basically, from the neck down, there isn’t much difference between people and animals. So when zombies were eating just brains, we could see why they weren’t eating animals—there was something about human brains they wanted. But now that they’re eating everything, why aren’t they eating everything?

The more I think about it, the more I have to conclude its because people are everywhere. Or, people are where people are. When a person becomes a zombie, he is in place where there were people. There’s probably a term for this in virology. Like target-rich environment, or close-sector vectoring, or something.

And it might also be the case that animals can’t turn into zombies. I know this has been treated in a few zombie movies. Help me remember—did 28 Days Later have zombie dogs? I can make an excuse for that—dogs are basically humans, when it comes to social structures, especially human ones.

Either or, we could say that the only reason zombies aren’t eating animals is because there are no animals around. They would, like in the first episode or The Walking Dead, when they ate that horse. Would a zombie eat a turkey? Would it make the zombie sleepy?

No, and no, I say. No because they would not recognize it as food, or sentient, for that matter. Turkeys have a reported IQ of -10. I am not making that up. They’re basically plants with feathers. No, worse than that. Plants at least don’t drown in the rain. Turkeys will stare at the sky when it rains until their gullets fill with water and they keel over.

Yes, all of that comes from myths that are as perennial as the “eating turkey makes you sleepy” trope. But zombies are fictional too. I can put turkey tropes in my zombie world if I want. And in that world, turkeys are stupid and safe from zombie attacks. They're symbols of a world where there are no shuffling gut gobblers.

In that world, people gather once a year to appreciate just being alive. Then they chase down a turkey, rip it to shreds, and devour it in greasy bites just because that's what zombies wouldn't do.

That's what thanksgiving means to me.

So Many Undead It Will Drive You Batty

Halloween is Dr. Dratoc’s least favorite time of year. He’s as enthusiastic about costumes and parties as he is about draining abscesses, which he did most of the day. A guy in is twenties, who’d been bitten by a dog, had foregone medical treatment, and gotten a nice bag of neutrophils for his trouble.

Still, Dr. Dratoc tries to make an effort, and agrees to attend a friend’s party. He decides to go dressed up as doctor. Who will know? He considers helping out in the ER for a day, to get his lab coat nice and splattered. He dismisses the idea immediately, of course—Typhoid Mary was bad enough; he’d hate to be remembered as Staph-Infection Steve.

The party is thumping, packed with Miley Cyruses and government-shutdown-pun costumes. Dratoc is standing next to the punch bowl, marveling at a party in the modern era that even bothers with a punch bowl, nevermind the vectors for bacteria transmission it presents. Still, it’s full of alcohol, so there’s that. He’s talking to Greg Seibar, the party’s host's roommate, who’s dressed, of course, like a zombie.

“So, dude. Get this. Later? Doug? You remember Doug? Crazy Doug? He’s coming as a vampire. With bats, dude. With bats.”

“I see,” says Dr. Dratoc, trying to ignore Seibar’s attempt at lividity. Is that guacamole spread on his face?

“Real live bats dude. Seriously, it’s going to be—“

There’s a scream, and the crowd parts as a man stumbles into the room, falling over and crashing through coffee table. He’s dressed in dark red, a tattered cape on his back. He manages to stand up, and there’s more screams. The makeup on his face is incredibly realistic. Red welts all over, foam running from his mouth. His eyes are wild and rolling as he staggers towards a girl dressed like an undead postal worker, grinding his teeth.

“Dude!” Greg, sloshing a cupful of punch and taking it to the new arrival. “Freaking awesome dude! Have a—“

At the sight of the cup the man goes into a rage, bellowing at an ungodly volume, knocking the cup to one side, and lunging for Greg’s throat. Dr Dratoc leaps forward and pulls the man back before he can sink his teeth into Greg’s flesh.

~~~

Rabies, or hydrophobia, or lyssavirus, has been around for most of recorded history, and probably predates civilization. Since it’s naming, some 4000 years ago, the disease has always been associated with animals, which is why, when symptoms show in someone without the presentation of zootic contexts, diagnoses can be varied. This makes “zombie!” an easy way to describe someone afflicted with late-stage rabies.

Symptoms can be similar to what is seen in your “fast and angry” type zombie movies, such as World War Z and 28 Days Later. In fact, fans of these popular zombie vehicles will recall that at the start of the outbreaks in these films, rabies is believed to be the cause of the violence that humanity witnesses.

Rabies can be transmitted via the saliva, which is why biting is often the means by which new victims become infected. Modern treatments now include some protocols that have shown limited success even in post-symptomatic patients.

~~~

While Dr. Dratoc struggles with the enraged man, Greg scoots himself backwards and hides behind a table. “What the damn hell! He thinks he’s a zombie! He thinks—“

Moving quickly, Dratoc pulls his wallet out and shoves it into the man’s mouth. The man clamps down on it hard enough to make his jaw bulge.

Everyone’s staring. A girl dressed like slutty Gloria Steinem says, “Is he having a stroke?”

“No, he has rabies. The wallet’s for him to bite on instead of me." The man struggles, but Dratoc holds on. "Someone call 911. And get them to send animal control to this idiot’s house. He’s probably got a pile of dead bats in his basement.”

Half a dozen people pull out cell phones and start poking. One takes a picture. “Is he going to be alright?” the girl says.

Dr. Dratoc tightens his grip, even as the man begins to relax, easing from mania into lethargy. “Probably not. I say he’s got an eight percent chance. But stupider things have happened.”

On the Difficulties of Creating a Zombie Taxonomy

Any approach to classifying different types or kinds of zombies is already working in the realm of meta-fiction. This is to say that comparing two different kinds of zombies requires comparing two different ideas created by two different people. Therefore, internal consistencies will the greatest challenge to establishing a robust taxonomy. Perhaps one way to mitigate this challenge is to base a zombie taxonomy not on the zombie creator but on the zombie consumer. What does the consumer know a zombie to be, and how does a consumer choose one kind of zombie as more “authentic” than another?

For example, consider the first popularization of zombies, in George Romero’s classic Night of the Living Dead. The original consumer would have come to the film without any context besides other horror films, and may have considered these zombies “vampiric.” And now consider the recent update of The Omega Man, called I Am Legend. In this movie, the vampires have all the appearance of zombies, and this is how many people refer to them.

This is because, due to the ongoing popularization of zombies, the modern consumer comes to a film or other zombie entertainment vehicle already equipped with a full collection of zombie tropes. The zombie consumer classifies the zombies by what she already knows, adjusting only as much as is required by the films’ adherence to revelation and consistency.

Zombies in Romero’s film eat only brains. In The Walking Dead, they eat human flesh. In World War Z, zombies bite, but they do not consume flesh or brains. Are these aspects of the zombie integral to the overall horror felt by the consumer? If so, she may classify zombies by what they eat.

In World War Z, 28 Days Later, and the video game Left 4 Dead, zombies run at top speed. In The Walking Dead and Shaun of the Dead, the zombies are slow shufflers. Whether or not zombies “should” be able to run quickly is a hot topic for debate among fans of zombie consumption, so the zombie consumer will certainly classify zombies by their ambulatory agility.

And how are zombies made? By chemicals in Return of the Living Dead. A bite resulting in death will make a zombie in Night of the Living Dead. Just a single bite will do the trick in World War Z. And while we don’t know why, in The Walking Dead, anyone who dies comes back as a zombie, no matter what the cause of death.

These three axes alone make zombie classification difficult enough. But other creative choices by zombie makers further complicate the issue. Some zombie vehicles include sentimental or even sentient zombies (Shaun of the Dead, Fido, Warm Bodies). Do zombies eventually rot away to nothing, or can they “grow” (as in David Wellington’s novel Monster Island)? And just what do we do with super-heroes turned undead in Marvel Zombies?

I began this essay as an introduction to creating my own zombie taxonomy, but I’m afraid my brains have been consumed by all of these different zombie types. Like a horde descending upon me, I’m succumbing to the realization that no single taxonomy will ever do justice to understanding zombies.