It was a wretched way to go in that you never truly left. Studies showed that the undead retained at least some of their former selves, enough to avoid food they'd been allergic to and objects they were afraid of in life. It made killing them just that little bit worse.
There were those who dedicated their lives to finding out everything they could about every zombie they'd beheaded, burnt or otherwise mutilated during the outbreak years. With everything under control now and the hordes safely relocated to isolated prison states, there wasn't much else to do other than rebuild and recover.
Honestly it's a form of masochism, trying to find out who they were when they were human. Let them die and be remembered as a human, not a creature hell-bent on mindless slaughter. It's just cruel to their memory and to whoever survives them.
Still doesn't stop some people, those strange few who feel nothing but guilt for having survived and for what they've done to keep themselves from joining their loved ones. It's generally the main reasoning behind them retracing their steps and tracking down every corpse they'd ever brought to a permanent halt.
They always seemed to carry some kind of memento on them, the undead. It's like death makes you memorialise yourself in case there's nobody else who can. There's always some kind of trinket, love letter, photo on them that reminds you, whether you want it to or not, that they weren't born like this.
Whatever they remember, however many times they've screamed as themselves to stop while being helpless inside a meat-suit that craves blood, whoever they managed to kill before a lucky shot got to them - they were still human.
Maybe they're more human than we are.
Maybe they've always felt guilty for killing us while we massacre them.
There were those who dedicated their lives to finding out everything they could about every zombie they'd beheaded, burnt or otherwise mutilated during the outbreak years. With everything under control now and the hordes safely relocated to isolated prison states, there wasn't much else to do other than rebuild and recover.
Honestly it's a form of masochism, trying to find out who they were when they were human. Let them die and be remembered as a human, not a creature hell-bent on mindless slaughter. It's just cruel to their memory and to whoever survives them.
Still doesn't stop some people, those strange few who feel nothing but guilt for having survived and for what they've done to keep themselves from joining their loved ones. It's generally the main reasoning behind them retracing their steps and tracking down every corpse they'd ever brought to a permanent halt.
They always seemed to carry some kind of memento on them, the undead. It's like death makes you memorialise yourself in case there's nobody else who can. There's always some kind of trinket, love letter, photo on them that reminds you, whether you want it to or not, that they weren't born like this.
Whatever they remember, however many times they've screamed as themselves to stop while being helpless inside a meat-suit that craves blood, whoever they managed to kill before a lucky shot got to them - they were still human.
Maybe they're more human than we are.
Maybe they've always felt guilty for killing us while we massacre them.
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