Zombie Running Quotes

When the black thing was at its worst, when the illicit cocktails and the ten-mile runs stopped working, I would feel numb as if dead to the world. I moved unconsciously, with heavy limbs, like a zombie from a horror film. I felt a pain so fierce and persistent deep inside me, I was tempted to take the chopping knife in the kitchen and cut the black thing out I would lie on my bed staring at the ceiling thinking about that knife and using all my limited powers of self-control to stop myself from going downstairs to get it.

Zombies don't run.

I wasn't crying, my eyes were running. My eyes were running because there were pieces of zombies all over my toys. Jesus.

How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?

Run, sweetheart, run.

A zombie film is not fun without a bunch of stupid people running around and observing how they fail to handle the situation.

She pictured herself running from a hoard of ravenous zombies on a hot day eventually collapsing from heatstroke and getting devoured. Then she imagined Hal giving a rousing eulogy at her funeral explaining how Kendra's death was a beautiful sacrifice allowing the noble zombies to live on delighting future generations by mindlessly trying to eat them. With her luck it could totally happen.

It’s a lot easier to blow up trains than to make them run on time.

So, it’s the zombie apocalypse, right? Zombies are coming out of the ass, running amuck through buildings and streets. You’ve already almost died three times by this point and have been mutated by the T virus twice, which appears to be painful. Would you take time in your obviously hectic daily routine to do your hair and put makeup on?

Justin took off in a run. Frosty and Bronx, too. It wasn’t long before Frosty was carrying Kat, Bronx was carrying Reeve and Justin was carrying Jaclyn. I think every one of them was crying. I forced myself to stand, to inch forward, toward the slayers.

That's okay. If we are attacked by zombies I don't have to run fast. I just have to run faster than you.

There aren't any rules to running away from your problems. No checklist of things to cross off. No instructions. Eeny, meeny, pick a path and go. That's how my dad does it anyway because apparently there's no age limit to running away, either. He wakes up one day, packs the car with everything we own, and we hit the road. Watch all the pretty colors go by until he finds a town harmless enough to hide in. But his problems always find us. Sometimes quicker than others. Sometimes one month and sometimes six. There's no rule when it comes to that, either. Not about how long it takes for the problems to catch up with us. Just that they will—that much is a given. And then it's time to run again to a new town, a new home, and a new school for me. But if there aren't any rules, I wonder why it feels the same every time. Feels like I leave behind a little bit of who I was in each house we've left empty. Scattering pieces of me in towns all over the place. A trail of crumbs dotting the map from everywhere we've left to everywhere we go. And they don't make any pictures when I connect dots. They are random like the stars littering the sky at night.

Our virus is a lot smarter than the ones you see in zombie movies. It doesn't make its victims stagger around slobbering and moaning so anyone in their right minds would run the other way. It gets you cozying up to people so you cough and sneeze it right into their faces. We just need the vaccine. Then we'll be okay.

Zombies cannot run. I say this definitively as the godfather of zombies. Zombies cannot run. So anyone who has a zombie running...don't listen to that person. Their ankles would snap. I mean what did they do, go and join a spa the moment they rose from the dead? Gimme a break. They're dead.

She delivered a vicious blow, penetrating his rib cage, and withdrew her hand — with the ninja's still-beating heart in it. As all but Lady Catherine turned away in disgust, Elizabeth took a bite, letting the blood run down her chin and onto her sparring gown. "Curious," said Elizabeth, still chewing. "I have tasted many a heart, but I dare say, I find the Japanese ones a bit tender." Her ladyship left the dojo without giving compliment to Elizabeth's skills.

A typical race morning usually starts out looking like a scene from a zombie movie: individuals or pairs of people walking down a deserted street, all headed in the same direction.... Inevitably, regardless of the weather, U2's "Beautiful Day" streams out of loudspeakers.

I know what I’m doing,” he growled. “If you knew what you were doing, we wouldn’t have two million zombie bunnies chasing us!” she shouted. “Guys,” Daphne said, trying to get their attention, but her sister was too angry to listen. “How was I supposed to know that kid was mentally unhinged?” Puck said. “I don’t know,” Sabrina snapped. “Maybe when we found him running from a dead body?” “Guys!” Daphne shouted. “What!” Puck and Sabrina snapped. “LOOK OUT!

I'd wander for days in the fog, scared I'd never see another thing, then there'd be that door, opening to show me the mattress padding on the other side to stop out the sounds, the men standing in a line like zombies among shiny copper wires and tubes pulsing light, and the bright scrape of arcing electricity. I'd take my place in the line and wait my turn at the table. The table shaped like a cross, with shadows of a thousand murdered men printed on it, silhouette wrists and ankles running under leather straps sweated green with use, a silhouette neck and head running up to a silver band goes across the forehead. And a technician at the controls beside the table looking up from his dial and down the line and pointing at me with a rubber glove.

When you’re being chased by zombies, hills are either your best friends or your burial ground. The slope slows them down, which is great, unless you hit the peak and find out that you’re surrounded, with nowhere left to run to.

You see? I have the run of this place." "Run? More like the zombie shuffle."-Yianna & Motti

It’s a lot easier to blow up trains than to make them run on time. What is it that Mister Churchill used to say? “Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others.

I wish I could break this window. Step through it. But I can't break this window. I can't even find some less dramatic way to die inside of this school, like hanging myself or slitting my wrists, because what would they do with my body? It might put everyone at risk. I won't let myself do that. I'm not selfish like Lily. I hate her. I hate her so much my heart tries to crawl out of my throat but it gets stuck there and beats crazily in the too narrow space. I bring my hands to my neck and try to massage it back down. I pres so heard against the skin, my eyes sting, and then I'm hurrying back down the stairs, back to the first floor. I think of Trace running laps, something he can control.

Mimicque—zombies—can only be killed with an iron or obsidian blade, so don't think you can just act like the wrestler El Santo in the 1970s film El Santo Versus the Mummies of Guanajuato. If a walking undead is after you, run. Let the experts take care of the zombies.

little brother started bothering me again. He’s such a little ankle biter! No, really. He likes to bite my ankles and run away… Really fast!

Beth sort of hugs me, which I am not a fan of, so I kick and run.

Each time a girl approached the table, Mortimer would smile. Like this: And each time the girl would shriek and run away.

Maybe Talon was secretly operating a chocolate factory," I joked, "because they discovered that making chocolate is much more rewarding than trying to take over everything" Riley snorted. "If they put something in the bars that turned all humans into mindless drones, I wouldn't put it past them," he replied. "But I doubt that's what happened here, Firebrand." "Okay, but if we run into chocolate-fueled zombies, you owe me dinner." "Always the zombies with you.

stone and concrete rain down. The rubble pounds the grass like a meteor shower. It’s like the tomb was detonated from the inside out. Like something suddenly ripped through it . . . Woozy, gripping the damp dirt, I get to my knees.And what I see—it makes my blood run ice cold. . . .

we like to think of it as parallel to what we know only bigger. one man against the authorities. or one man against a city of zombies. one man who is not, in fact, a man, sent to understand the caravan of men now chasing him like red ants let loose down the pants of america. man on the run.

This is the moment I have dreaded, the very reason why we kept running, even when it seemed hopeless. We all seemed to believe if we kept running, we would never die. But what exactly had we been hoping to find in the end? A magical place where the infection hadn't spread? A castle surrounded by gumdrops and cotton candy?

Presents? Cake? I could use a new bat, maybe some good work boots or running shoes.

Wouldn't it be ironic if everyone who got a radio up and running just sat around waiting for everyone else to transmit a message?

I never used to run before this, never wanted to and never had the time to. Now, I run nearly every day.

...I can't make exceptions for myself. If I can run, I will run. I don't have to feel good to do it.

All that ran through my mind at her suggesstion was running through the park with a ton of turned Disney Princesses and the three little pigs hot on our trail.

Zombies were probably munching on my friends and family as we speak and I was contemplating orgasms in the apocalypse. But it couldn’t be helped.

Get the hell away from us before i go find my hammer and pound some sense into that gaping hole between your ears

Girls who can run in high heels should be feared.

You could die tomorrow, Alexis, why not enjoy today?

Pretty lady. Why are you crying? My mom says crying makes your asscarrots run,” Angel said.

On one notable occasion there was a group that went semicultish whose rallying cry was “Rationality! Reason! Objective reality!” (More on this later.) Labeling the Great Idea “rationality” won’t protect you any more than putting up a sign over your house that says “Cold!” You still have to run the air conditioner—expend the required energy per unit time to reverse the natural slide into cultishness. Worshipping rationality won’t make you sane any more than worshipping gravity enables you to fly. You can’t talk to thermodynamics and you can’t pray to probability theory. You can use it, but not join it as an in-group.

Liam... You’re the best. You’re handsome, funny, patient with my fits, a fantastic cook. You taught me how to swim.” Ryan bit his lip, eyes focused on the shadowed face in front of him. “Like, if there was a zombie apocalypse, you’d save me and feed me.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t need some loser with a guitar that wouldn’t even work without electricity. I’d need a real man. The kind that runs into a burning building to save me.

Then I heard him shout “They’re running! Holy fuckin’ shit, they’re fast!” Fast zombies, that turned my gut. If they could run, they could climb, if they could climb, maybe they could think, and if they could think…now I was scared.

I can’t imagine you ever going to a dump,” BT said to her. “I’ve had reason,” she replied flatly. “I don’t even want to know,” BT said. “I wouldn’t tell you anyway. All I know is that if I run out of cigarettes I plan on making your life a living hell,

It’s that zombie virus thing that was on the news!” shouted a man in a Starfleet uniform. It was Next Generation command red, but he was running away from the danger, not toward it. Maybe that was how the command crew stayed alive. “They’ll eat you if you stay here!” “They

Shawshank’s good,” he says. “But you can’t beat the way Woody Harrelson kills zombies. He takes such joy in it.” “Uh-huh,” I say, making a face. “I’ve always found zombies to be the least threatening of the scary monsters. I mean, come on. They’re slow. They’re brain-dead. They don’t plot evil or try to take over the world. They just—” I put my arms out in front of me and give him my best zombie groan. I shake my head. “So not scary.” “But they just. Keep. Coming,” Christian says. “You can run, you can kill them, but more of them always pop up, and they never stop.” He shudders. “And they try to eat you, and if you get bitten, that’s it—you’re infected. You’re doomed to become a zombie yourself. End of story.” “Okay,” I concede, “they’re kind of scary,” and now I’m vaguely disappointed that we’re not here to watch a zombie movie.

I had never been out of the country before. And maybe this trip didn’t technically count because, well, America had officially imploded and I hadn’t needed a passport to cross the border, but I was more than a little disappointed we hadn’t run into a mariachi band yet. “Donde esta el Zombies?

she was very fast and she was able to elude the zombies by running around the block and then back to the court house where another zombie in the shredded-up uniform of a county sheriff had been on its hands and knees, eating the white-heads off the clovers. It hadn’t seen her before and she didn’t see it, now.

Botnets are supremely powerful, since they can comprise thousands, even hundreds of thousands of computers, scattered all over the Internet, connected to juicy high-speed connections and running on fast home PCs. Those PCs normally function on behalf of their owners, but when the botmaster calls them, they rise like zombies to do his bidding.

There were too many infected running around. Some looked as if they were dead already, but still they stumbled around like heroine addicts. Those ones did not move as fast as the newly infected, who were actually capable of running like a perfectly healthy person. They were the scary ones to worry about. All it took was one bite to ruin your day.

The gunnery sergeant didn’t crack a smile at the radio intercept of Faith’s concept of a backup plan, an intercept that had caused Commander Bradburn, skipper of the Dallas, to literally fall out of his command chair laughing. Sands managed to watch the video stone-faced as she boarded the Voyage and began her “fifteen minutes of mayhem,” set in the video to the tune of Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping. He managed to keep a straight face the third time she popped back up like a jack-in-the-box after being dogpiled by zombies. He held it in during her overheard running commentary as the rest of the Marines, even the NCOs, started rolling on the deck. It was when she got the Halligan tool stuck in a zombie’s head and overbalanced that he snorted. When she unstuck her bent machete and it caught a male zombie in the groin he started laughing out loud. When the, admittedly not petite, girl stuck a boot knife in a zombie’s eye then threw him over the side, tears started running down his face and he completely lost his composure as a senior NCO of the United States Marine Corps.

Once upon a time, a noob named Lenny never liked doors. Doors got in Lenny's way. Doors slowed Lenny down. Lenny had to open them and close them. Without a door for his dirt house, Lenny was free to run inside and outside again without any delay. Then one night, Lenny couldn't understand why so many zombies were approaching his house with their arms outstretched.

When the zombies win, their quest to eat and infect human flesh will continue unabated. They will have known only gorging, only feasting; they will not understand the world as anything other than a screaming buffet on the run. Yet there will be only silence and vacant rooms where once there was food, and the zombies, in their slow and stumbling way, will be surprised.

Mr. Beetroot, the history teacher, continued: "After several months of existing in the Overworld, a zombie will turn into a skeleton. The skeleton will grow smarter. The skeleton will run away if injured." Meanwhile, I thought: After thirty minutes of Mob History II, Runt will turn into a zombie. Runt will make moaning sounds. Runt will head toward the nearest door and break it down.

Just outside of Greater Los Angeles, in a town called Claremont, are five colleges—Pomona, Pitzer, Scripps, Harvey Mudd, and Claremont Mckenna. At the start of the Great Panic, when everyone else was running, literally, for the hills, three hundred students chose to make a stand. They turned the Women’s College at Scripps into something resembling a medieval city. They got their supplies from the other campuses; their weapons were a mix of landscaping tools and ROTC practice rifles. They planted gardens, dug wells, fortified an already existing wall. While the mountains burned behind them, and the surrounding suburbs descended into violence, those three hundred kids held off ten thousand zombies! Ten thousand, over the course of four months, until the Inland Empire could finally be pacified.

We passed more people, unsure of who was running and who was chasing. I saw parents carrying their young children, and pulling along older ones by the hand. A couple of times people sreamed at me to stop, begged me to hlep them, but stopping always meant dying in the movies, and I was barely eighteen. I wasn't sure how long we could survive, but I knew I wasn't dying on day one of the fucking zombie apocalypse.

Kids are nearly insane. Doubt me? Think of all the asinine things they do. What won’t they put in their mouths? What won’t they dive off of? What situations won’t they put themselves in? Why do you think parents go prematurely gray or bald? Because it takes a lot of effort to keep crazy Cathy and insane Isaac from running into traffic with nothing more on than a pair of wet diapers and sand pails on their heads.

We inherently know that, when controlled by others, life loses its flair and we are cast into melancholy and mediocrity. Without such striving for individual freedom, what becomes of us? We relinquish our free will to a society of strangers that speaks not of liberty and courage but of conformity and caution. Our true self is subjugated and a pseudo self emerges, a mere reflection of a society that has lost its way. “They” start running our lives and soon we are not “us” anymore, just walking zombies filled with the commands of others’ preferences and expectations. We become those masked souls who spend their time wandering in a wildernesses of sameness and sadness. We become tired and weak. We lose our nature. And then we see the worst of human behavior—a mass of people who do not speak up for themselves or others but rather do only what they are told.

Her twitching muscles felt near enough like wracking sobs. Struggling on that table felt near enough like times she’d clutched her knees and sobbed quietly in the tub. Life and love. When the bad parts crept in, sometimes she wished it would end. Wished there was some quick way out for cowards. She loved her husband, wasn’t sure how not to, but sometimes she sat in the tub with the water running dangerously hot and wanted out. Like now, just wanting to die.

Nicky turned and bolted. He’d only had about a thirty foot head start and a few were closing ground on him quickly. He cursed his hundred-dollar shoes and his vanity. The shoes looked great, but were definitely not made for running, nor was the suit he was wearing. He vowed that if he made it out of there alive, he’d only wear sneakers and track suits for the rest of his days. "Of course, I’ll probably be laughed out of the mob, but I don’t care at this point.

Now, we’d had goldfish before. We won them at a church fair by throwing ping-pong balls into the little bowls they were swimming in. They didn’t live very long though. Mom said it was because the fish all had concussions from being hit on the head with the ping-pong balls. I had a concussion once when I was four, after I accidentally ran into the front door that Mark accidentally slammed shut just as he accidentally yelled, “Run, Tom, run.” That was back when he was just mostly evil.

Hey Pete. So why the leave from social media? You are an activist, right? It seems like this decision is counterproductive to your message and work." A: The short answer is I’m tired of the endless narcissism inherent to the medium. In the commercial society we have, coupled with the consequential sense of insecurity people feel, as they impulsively “package themselves” for public consumption, the expression most dominant in all of this - is vanity. And I find that disheartening, annoying and dangerous. It is a form of cultural violence in many respects. However, please note the difference - that I work to promote just that – a message/idea – not myself… and I honestly loath people who today just promote themselves for the sake of themselves. A sea of humans who have been conditioned into viewing who they are – as how they are seen online. Think about that for a moment. Social identity theory run amok. People have been conditioned to think “they are” how “others see them”. We live in an increasing fictional reality where people are now not only people – they are digital symbols. And those symbols become more important as a matter of “marketing” than people’s true personality. Now, one could argue that social perception has always had a communicative symbolism, even before the computer age. But nooooooothing like today. Social media has become a social prison and a strong means of social control, in fact. Beyond that, as most know, social media is literally designed like a drug. And it acts like it as people get more and more addicted to being seen and addicted to molding the way they want the world to view them – no matter how false the image (If there is any word that defines peoples’ behavior here – it is pretention). Dopamine fires upon recognition and, coupled with cell phone culture, we now have a sea of people in zombie like trances looking at their phones (literally) thousands of times a day, merging their direct, true interpersonal social reality with a virtual “social media” one. No one can read anymore... they just swipe a stream of 200 character headlines/posts/tweets. understanding the world as an aggregate of those fragmented sentences. Massive loss of comprehension happening, replaced by usually agreeable, "in-bubble" views - hence an actual loss of variety. So again, this isn’t to say non-commercial focused social media doesn’t have positive purposes, such as with activism at times. But, on the whole, it merely amplifies a general value system disorder of a “LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT HOW GREAT I AM!” – rooted in systemic insecurity. People lying to themselves, drawing meaningless satisfaction from superficial responses from a sea of avatars. And it’s no surprise. Market economics demands people self promote shamelessly, coupled with the arbitrary constructs of beauty and success that have also resulted. People see status in certain things and, directly or pathologically, use those things for their own narcissistic advantage. Think of those endless status pics of people rock climbing, or hanging out on a stunning beach or showing off their new trophy girl-friend, etc. It goes on and on and worse the general public generally likes it, seeking to imitate those images/symbols to amplify their own false status. Hence the endless feedback loop of superficiality. And people wonder why youth suicides have risen… a young woman looking at a model of perfection set by her peers, without proper knowledge of the medium, can be made to feel inferior far more dramatically than the typical body image problems associated to traditional advertising. That is just one example of the cultural violence inherent. The entire industry of social media is BASED on narcissistic status promotion and narrow self-interest. That is the emotion/intent that creates the billions and billions in revenue these platforms experience, as they in turn sell off people’s personal data to advertisers and governments. You are the product, of course.

Eighty years, whether it feels that way to us right now? It’s a long time. We’ve had a good run. And we—not you and I, but the Big We—we’re getting into the habit of destroying everything good about ourselves before taking our belated leave. Remember those horror films we grew up watching? About zombies, and mummies, and Frankenstein’s monster, staggering around with gaping mouths and vacant eyes? Those creatures played on a primal fear: of living death. And despite the fact that it’s one of our mythic terrors, that’s what we're trying to arrange for everyone now: a living death.

I POINT OUT the embankment leading down to the water’s edge. “All the way down to that walking trail,” I say to Ringer. “And don’t wait for me.” She shakes her head, frowning. I lean in, keeping my expression as serious as I can. “I thought I had you with the zombie remark. One of these days, I’m going to get a smile out of you, Private.” Very much not smiling. “I don’t think so, sir.” “You have something against smiling?” “It was the first thing to go.” Then the snow and the dark swallow her. The rest of the squad follows. I can hear Teacup whimpering beneath her breath as Dumbo leads her off, going, “Run hard when it goes, Cup, okay?

I can’t believe you’re in the gym again,” Tink went on, stepping aside. “Why are you in here running so much? Are you preparing for the impending zombie apocalypse that I know nothing about? Because if you are, we need to find the nearest redneck to become best friends with, one that is hot in a dirty, rugged way. You know, the kind that probably smells like sweat and man, one with a complex background that makes you hate him at first, but slowly, over time, you grow to love him.” I stared at him. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.” “I have. I like to be prepared. Since we’re in the south, it shouldn’t be hard to find one. So, why are you in the gym so much?

I'm living in a horror movie, all right. Only the horror doesn't have anything to do with necrophilia or black masses or crosses hung upside down, or with vampires who can't swim or zombies who work in sugar cane fields and can't stop shambling off cliffs when some guy with a jawbreaker accent says so, No, this is real life. It was running out all around him. the footprints of assassins and neo-fascists and government officials with secret closets full of tutus, private armies training in ships named after the wives of oilmen, of drunken presidents in bed with the mob and the cartels that slice up the world and stick FOR SALE signs on the pieces; while the real kings of earth lie moldering in their graves, their brains stolen away in the night and their bullet wounds altered to match storybook plots that would be laughed out of any preschool classroom. And all this while the billions sweat and grow old like the living dead, their lifeblood sucked dry by the takers of souls who need our labor to feed a hunger for power without end. The undead? What a cheapjack explanation for so much misery. There is more than enough to account for it all without falling back on the unnameable. It's already here. The trick is to see it and not flinch- there's no future in denial. It's as simple, and as enormous, as that. The truth, however bleak, was almost comforting.

VR addictions take it to a new level. People are found dead everyday in their beds or couches, with their VR helmets still on, their games still running. They die of starvation, thirst, heart attacks. It's a big problem, and zombies—people with severe addictions—are as common as alcoholics or drug addicts these days. Many of them can't function in the real world anymore. They don't go to school or work or go outside. They couldn't even if they wanted to. The way Hakeem's mom explained it to us—in an effort to scare us from ever letting ourselves go that route, I guess—people with severe VR addictions have flipped the real and virtual worlds in their minds. To them, reality is the simulation, and VR is reality.

Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates! All streaming into cozy hotels All going to do the same thing tonight The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen The lobby zombies they knowing what The whistling elevator man he knowing The winking bellboy knowing Everybody knowing! I'd be almost inclined not to do anything! Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye! Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon! running rampant into those almost climatic suites yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel! O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce--

I see a human form coming toward me, arms outstretched. Assuming that form to be naked, I duck and back up so as not to get groped by one of my zombie friends,only to back my bare heinie into someone else. "Ahh!" Mackenzie screams. "Ahh!" I scream right back. Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh. My eyes are adjusting, and I see that all five of us are jumping up and down and screaming. We would usually hug or fall into some kind of laughing pileup in this kind of situation,but in our current state, we insteadt sort of cover our chests with one forearm and slap at the air in front of us with the other. Then we all start shushing one another, terribly afraid of waking up anyone else in the house. Kimi opens the door to the family room and we peek out. No sign of human life in the kitchen. I spooked myself in there only a few minutes ago, and now I'm about to run headlong into this very same nightmare naked. What is wrong with me?

I started blasting my gun. Letting loose a stream of words like I'd never used before. True to form, Misty didn't stay put and stood at my side. Tears stained her cheeks. Her gun firing wildly. It was a blur. The next thing I knew, no zombies were left standing and we knelt at Kali's side. I took out a rag and wiped the feathers from his face. We could tell he was still alive. His chest rising and falling in jerks. "Kali, how bad are you hurt?" I asked with an unsteady voice. "I'm okay, guys. Did we get all of them?" he whispered. "Nate, he's been bit all over!" I looked down at his body, covered in white feathers, speckled with splotches of deep red. "Yep. You got 'em, even those freak chickens." "Nate, I'm thirsty," his voice shaky and cracking. "Okay, buddy. We've got water in the truck." "No, not water. How about a glass of lemonade?" "Kali, what are you saying?" Misty's voice was tense as a piano string. "Hurry, Nate. I'm getting weak—the lemonade." I think running into the crowd of zombies would have been easier than this. Maybe that's why Kali chucked a rock at my head—he knew he could count on me for this. I ripped off a small water gun I had taped on my suit and tore off the cap. "Oh, Nate, don't. Maybe there's something we can do. Maybe—" she stopped. I put my hand behind Kali's neck and felt a slight burn, probably zombie snot. Misty took one of his hands and held it to her chest. "You were so brave, Kali, so brave." My hands didn't shake anymore; they were numb, as if they didn't belong to me. I manipulated them the best I could—like using chopsticks. Lifting Kali's head, I poured the juice into his mouth until it was gone. He was burning up; his skin felt like it was on fire. "I never thought I'd have friends, real friends—thank you, guys." He closed his eyes and I felt the muscles in his neck go limp. Gently, I put his head down and cleaned my blistering hand with the rag. Misty wiped her tears as I put the rag over Kali's face. "No, thank you, kid." We sat there still, silent except for the small cries that we both let slip out. Misty, still holding his hand. Me, staring down at my hands, soaked in tears. I don't know how much time passed. It could have been five minutes; it might have been an hour. Suddenly, the feathers moved, flying in every direction. Looking up, I saw a helicopter coming down in front of us—one of those big black military ones. It landed and three men stepped out. They wore protective gear like you see in those alien movies. I worried a little about what they might have planned for us. I've seen enough movies to know those government types can't be trusted—especially when they're in those protective suits. "What happened here? How did you manage to negate the virus?" one of the hooded figures asked. "Zombie juice," I replied. "Zombie juice?" "Actually it was the Super Zombie Juice Mega Bomb," Misty added as she stood and took my hand.

Often we go through minutes, hours, and even days operating totally from our subconscious. We think we are in control, but the subconscious has established its own agenda and is really running the show. We are ASLEEP! Walking Zombies!

Wow,” Stella said, wrapping her blanket more tightly around her body. “I hope they do have it contained. That’s all we need now is a deadly virus running through this world.” “I’m sure it won’t affect us over here,” Dana said, reassuringly.

help me,’ I panted heavily. Man, I don’t run enough. It wasn’t even that far, but I was SUPER PUFFED. Phew!

The problem with pulling a gun on somebody is that sometimes they pull one, too. And the problem with shooting at someone is that sometimes they shoot back.

We're all dead men, Greg. Some just sooner than others.

Question #95 You are being chased by rabid wolves and the road you're running on reaches a trident with 3 routes you can take to escape.  The first route is a trail riddled with land mines.  The second route is a road littered with ultra-fast and strong zombies like those from World War Z and Train to Busan.  The last route is a stream filled with Piranhas that haven't eaten in 20 years.  Which route is the safest?

If you wanted to survive out in the open in the apocalypse you needed to be able to run fast and keep it up for as long as you had to.  There were no participation awards handed out after a Zombie race.

A Lasting Legacy I return to Elkins now, to make a summary point and a single closing observation. The summary point is that even as a closed system, slavery, simply because of its long duration, produced over time a distinctive African American culture. This is a point stressed in Eugene Genovese’s Roll, Jordan, Roll and in his mostly sympathetic critique of Elkins. Slaves, for instance, developed a repertoire of songs and stories and relationships—sometimes lifelong relationships—that ultimately helped to form a black identity in the United States. There is no analog for this in the concentration camps, partly because of the nature of the camps and partly because they lasted for just a dozen years from 1933 to 1945. In general, camp prisoners did not form close relationships, partly because this was discouraged by the guards and partly because prisoners realized that the very person you befriended last week could be summarily executed this week. So the only behavioral changes that concentration camps produced were in the nature of short-term adaptations to camp life itself. It follows from this that the cultural legacy of slavery long outlasted slavery while the cultural legacy of the camps—including the peculiar disfigurations of personality that Elkins detected—proved to be a temporary phenomenon. The phenomena of the zombie-like Muselmanner, the ersatz Nazism of the Kapos—all of this is now gone. It makes no sense to say that Jews or eastern Europeans today display any of the characteristics that developed within that temporary closed system. With American blacks, however, the situation is quite different. Although slavery ended in 1865, it lasted more than 200 years, and it had its widest scope during the era of Democratic supremacy in the South from the 1820s through the 1860s. Many of the features of the old slave plantation—dilapidated housing, broken families, a high degree of violence required to keep the place together, a paucity of opportunity and advancement prospects, a widespread sense of nihilism and despair—are evident in Democrat-run inner cities like Oakland, Detroit, Baltimore, and Chicago. “There was a distinct underclass of slaves,” political scientist Orlando Patterson writes, “who lived fecklessly or dangerously. They were the incorrigible blacks of whom the slave-owner class was forever complaining. They ran away. They were idle. They were compulsive liars. They seemed immune to punishment.” And then comes Patterson’s punch line: “We can trace the underclass, as a persisting social phenomenon, to this group.” 39 The Left doesn’t like Patterson because he’s a black scholar of West Indian origin with a penchant for uttering politically incorrect truths.

In the distance, I spotted a villager running towards the village. He was being chased by the emerging zombies. I knew he wasn’t going to make it to safety if I didn’t help him. So, I ditched my tower and grabbed my wooden sword and ran out to escort the villager.

After several months of existing in the Overworld, a zombie will turn into a skeleton. The skeleton will grow smarter. The skeleton will run away if injured." Meanwhile, I thought: After thirty minutes of Mob History II, Runt will turn into a zombie. Runt will make moaning sounds. Runt will head toward the nearest door and break it down.

Dave was about to run away from the zombie pigmen, but then he realized that, as bad as she was, he couldn’t just leave Wex to be trampled by the pigmen. So he picked her up and chucked her into Carl’s cell,

Uh, I promise you I can outmaneuver a zombie, Justin.” “Well, if you can’t, I promise to run slower than you.

Why have we been able to make such a valuable industry out of this one event? Because villagers are usually wimps who just run and hide from zombies whenever they see them.

Don't climb out on the roof." "What if there's a fire?" "Unless there's a fire." "What if there's a robber with a gun?" "Sang." "Or a zombie?" I giggled. "You don't run from zombies. You shoot them in the head." "I don't have a gun." "I'm not buying you a gun.

Golden Rule #1 Always build a door for your house. Once upon a time, a noob named Lenny never liked doors. They got in his way. They slowed him down. He had to open them and close them. Without a door for his dirt house, Lenny was free to run inside and outside without any delay. Then one night, Lenny couldn’t understand why so many zombies were approaching his house with their arms outstretched. THE ZOMBIES AREN’T COMING IN FOR TEA, LENNY. OMG, THE ZOMBIES AREN’T COMING IN FOR

Kristi's main character flaw? Her love of running. Always trying to get other people to run with you is not welcome or cute. I wouldn't run unless zombies were chasing me, and even then, after a block, I'd probably relent and offer myself up as a tasty kosher snack.

America was a segregated workforce, and in many cases, that segregation contained a cultural element. A great many of our instructors were first-generation immigrants. These were the people who knew how to take care of themselves, how to survive on very little and work with what they had. These were the people who tended small gardens in their backyards, who repaired their own homes, who kept their appliances running for as long as mechanically possible. It was crucial that these people teach the rest of us to break from our comfortable, disposable consumer lifestyle even though their labor had allowed us to maintain that lifestyle in the first place. Yes, there was racism, but there was also classism. You’re a high-powered corporate attorney. You’ve spent most of your life reviewing contracts, brokering deals, talking on the phone. That’s what you’re good at, that’s what made you rich and what allowed you to hire a plumber to fix your toilet, which allowed you to keep talking on the phone. The more work you do, the more money you make, the more peons you hire to free you up to make more money. That’s the way the world works. But one day it doesn’t.

If you see a child zombie. Run. They're the scariest. Fuck that shit.

Ooof.” “Dude, why’d you stop?” “Oh. Damnnn.” I turn around and stare at five zombie football players. Who are actually football players. See, Sienna. I totally could’ve been a teacher tonight! I squint at the guy in the back whose familiar scowl I recognize. “Ben?” He does that thing with his chin that’s supposed to pass for a greeting. I’m really tired of how my brother’s turned into a raging asshole. Our parents would be so disappointed by his lack of manners. “How’s it going, Gabs?” My heart drops at the sound of that voice. Rider Kingston. Of fucking course. Because being on a second date means I have to run into this man. My attention goes straight to those criminally beautiful gray eyes fringed with dark lashes. Even with zombie makeup, the man is ridiculously handsome. I want to punch him in his pretty face.

Where’s the fire?” I slow my pace, falling into step beside her. “Sorry,” I mutter. “This is my normal walk. Maybe you should try to walk a little faster.” “Well, your normal walk is like jogging for me and I don’t jog,” she says. “Actually, I only run if someone is chasing me or there’s a zombie apocalypse.” I can’t help but laugh. “You’re something else, Little McCallister.

Nova felt faint. Ask me to walk on broken glass, my darling. Ask me to tear my heart out and give it to you. Ask me to swim around the world, to out-run a Titanide, to wrestle a zombie. Ask any of these things and I will do them gladly, or die in the attempt, for you.

No more running, no more half living, starving or fear. You have it better than me now, I think.

A man’s principles are his own. Man starts flip-flopping on what he believes based on outside influences and he may as well run for congress.

I picked a villager that I saw picking crops. Steve also gave me some music to go with the routine, so I turned on the boom box and jumped out of the bushes. “Everybody Dance Now!” I started doing my routine, and it was good! I was all up into my routine, when more and more villagers gathered around me. I was really getting into it. Soon, the entire village was gathered around me, and they were into it too. “Hey guys, check out what Zombie is doing!” one of the mob kids yelled. Then all of the mob kids jumped out of the bushes at once. All of a sudden, the entire village went crazy and the villagers started running and screaming. “It’s the Zombie Apocalypse!” a villager yelled. “AAAAHHHH!!!” was all I heard, as all of the villagers scattered to their homes. Ms. Bones was shocked. “You scared the entire village all at once!” she said. “That was the most amazing thing I have ever seen!

And that's when he heard the screaming. Screams came from inside the building. Blood-curdling screams. The kind you don't run to and investigate.

Like any smart person in my predicament, I made sure the light was pointing right in my eyes when I turned it on. Nothing like a case of temporary blindness to get your adrenaline running.

I wanted to tell him that wasn’t normal for ninety-eight percent of the American population. Most of us would have been happy with a four-day weekend at Six Flags, a Wednesday night run to Wendy’s, and hopefully making enough money so that we wouldn’t have to hand out stickers at Walmart when we retired. No offense, Tommy. If nothing else, the zombies had leveled the playing field. We all were equally mired in the shit of existence now. I just nodded. I saw no sense or purpose in kicking the man while he was down. “It

The tears were back, stinging just behind my eyes. There was blood all over my penguins. I didn’t give a damn about the walls and carpet. They could be replaced, but I’d collected those damned stuffed toys over years. I let the paramedic lead me away. Tears trickling down my cheeks. I wasn’t crying, my eyes were running. My eyes were running because there were pieces of zombie all over my toys. Jesus.

I, um, had had it in mind to take Azeel and Rodrigo with me to South Carolina. But they may be helpful to the present venture, if…er…if Rodrigo is sufficiently recovered.” “Has he been ill?” Worry creased the general’s already-furrowed brow. “I hear the yellow jack comes to the West Indies at this season, but I hadn’t thought Jamaica was badly affected.” “No, not ill, exactly. He had the misfortune to run afoul of a houngan—a sort of, um, African wizard, I believe—and was turned into a zombie.

I love you, precious, but you may need to run your ass off,” Dad said as we headed out of the classroom area of the church. My pelvic bone smacked against the Kevlar in the soldier’s suit as he ran, we burst out the entrance double doors with my bridal lingerie in view for the whole world to see. He threw me on the back of the truck. How rude. It’s a good thing there are no customer service surveys for emergency evacuations or this guy would have failed. I could see a group of slowly moving people head towards us. They looked like they needed to go to the tanning bed. The worst part was that they smelled like they had eaten a batch of dead kittens. I still want to puke when I think about