The Walking Dead

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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.

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One response »

  1. I usually avoid zombie movies and shows, but all my friends were recommending The Walking Dead, so I tuned in to that first episode and was hooked.

    I still don’t like the zombies much. Ick. They give me the creeps, and I am now flinching at noises in the house late at night. I even saw a zombie in the shadows of the kitchen as went down around midnight to get a snack.

    I think the show is most compelling when the sheriff is out and about. Not sure I like “camp life” much at all, and I especially don’t like the story between the wife and the friend.

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