Written by: Savannah Harrison
Those who had studied the lore of the undead prior to the Gilgamesh Effect were the real wild cards. The conspiracy theorists who truly believed the government was trying to develop a virus that would cause the living to become something much more dangerous; the religious rabble-rousers who used the Bible to spread the fear of the dead walking the earth; and the kids who grew up with videogames, movies and books that offered a variety of zombie tips and tricks to live by were the ones pegged as prepared. Especially the latter group – who thought they were invincible because they knew the basics: aim for the head, don’t get bitten, don’t get separated from the group, avoid strangers, avoid populated areas, don’t die (and, if you have to, do so by your own hand).
But it didn’t always play out that way, because the rules that applied to hypothetical zombie outbreaks pre-G.E. didn’t always apply to the real thing. Furthermore, in some instances, playing by the rules just didn’t matter.
Before zombies bridged the gap between nightmare and reality, I was as obsessed with the subject as any modern day z-head. I owned all the books, watched all Romero’s gruesome movies and played all the games. I jokingly swore that Max Brooks had come from the future to warn us of the inevitable zombie apocalypse with The Zombie Survival Guide and World War Z and spent hours ruminating with friends and family about the best way to zombie-proof a house. Once, a near stranger even chose me as the ultimate zombie-fighting weapon.
Point blank: When it happened, I wasn’t ready and I wasn’t a weapon. I was nothing more than a scared child with an imagined edge that didn’t matter in the face of the real thing.
I survived the war with the undead or, at least, the worst of it – considering the world isn’t wiped completely clean of the threat, none of us are truly survivors just yet. But I didn’t survive it because I’d read The Zombie Survival Guide a thousand and one times or even because I’d come to empathize with the shambling dead through The Zen of Zombie.
I didn’t follow the rules. I didn’t shoot for the head. I didn’t flee to colder, wilder terrain. I didn’t learn to ride a bike. I didn’t burn the stairs. I didn’t board up the house. I didn’t avoid public venues. I didn’t stay calm. I didn’t have a plan. I broke the rules. I found my mother. I protected my cat. I jeopardized myself for others. I remained human, feeling, sympathetic. And somehow – mostly thanks to luck – me and mine are still alive.
The thing that most zombie fans forgot in poring over their various handbooks is that humanity is the only difference between us and them. We are not calculating, perfect killing machines. Most of us cannot even imagine pointing a gun at the reanimated body of a loved one, friend or even a stranger. Most of us still want to aid the screaming child or the crippled adult. Most of us do not have the thrill of the hunt or even the will to survive engrained deeply enough into us because, before The Gilgamesh Effect, that was not the world we knew.
Here’s what I learned, though, here’s the golden rule that came to me in my darkest zombie days: when facing the supernatural, book smarts and preparedness don’t make you any less human or any less fallible. And, if they did, how would we be any different from our newfound enemy?
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