Jack learned quick that the word for zombies is slow. They moved slow. The reacted slow. They died (again) slow. Why should they hurry? It wasn’t as if time was running out. They were already dead.

Time itself goes slow around the undead. It often does during dramatic moments. Breakaway with the puck during the big game; time slows down. Launch day of everything the last year had gone into; time slows down. She waits, lips pressed and moist; time slows down. It slows to better experience it.

Which is the real horror of zombies. You experience the rot, the pink-blue-green, flesh-bone-juice patchwork that is a walking corpse. You experience the smell that spikes right into the spot behind your nose where stenches are remembered forever. You experience the unnatural shamble bringing unstoppable Death closer to you, reaching for you, devouring you, the horror of life made real in a moment.

Slow is the word for zombies. Slow is the horror of zombies.

Unless you were Jack. Jack learned quick so he understood these things. And Jack was psychotic. Jack loved playing with zombies.

Slow to move? Gave Jack time to dance among them. Slow rot? Set them on fire, smash a fist through them, tear through with a chainsaw, their flesh lent itself to creativity. Slow to die? Jack enjoyed the challenge, more fun than regular people, and, besides, no one minds, the dead have no rights.

Slow horror? Jack was much worst. Good thing he has zombies to play with.