Last night, thanks to friends Jim and Alyson (and their DVR capabilities), I finally watched the premiere for AMC’s much-lauded new zombie-apocalypse-based TV series, The Walking Dead. It was everything that was promised: scary, gory, and infused with shambling, lurching, groaning zombies in all shades of dead.
The best part? When the credits rolled, I cared. I cared what was going to happen to this poor wreck of a Georgia sheriff with his troubled marriage and his healing shotgun wound. I cared about the psychological well-being of the man and his son coping with the zombification of their beloved wife and mother. I cared about the irreverent voice on the tank’s CB radio, still sarcastic and full of vinegar after weeks of surviving the undead-ing of Atlanta.
I even cared about the horse. Poor zombie chow.
I think I’m going to enjoy this show. I’ve always daydreamed about being part of a rag-tag band of survivors. Now I can experience that thrill vicariously from a comfortable chair, which is probably the best way.
Especially when the real thing involves facing down grisly sights like this one:
If that doesn’t make you want to lay in survival supplies and buy a sturdy baseball bat, I don’t know what will.