By reading this message, you have granted Purple Brigade’s First Lieutenant Anthony Michael Hall temporary control of your mind.
Brains or brawn? Which would you choose? In survival situations, brawn may often win. The importance in being able to physically survive unexpected encounters with the undead can’t be understated… but neither can the ability to think and take intelligent, decisive action.
While First Lt. Hall has not yet been tested against the true horror of the endless shambling horde, this Boston native is surely as well-equipped as any of us to not only just survive, but to stand firm with the other Commanders and loyalists when the time comes. Working from an undisclosed location, Anthony’s movements are unpredictable and undetectable to the always present but rarely seen Unidentified Government Agency (UGA), making him an invaluable asset to the more covert operations within the ZSC. But even the most covert of operatives must eventually resurface.
Anthony recently made an appearance at Monster Mania 21 in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, where he was temporarily detained by one such UGA while attempting to secure top secret documentation for an upcoming international operation. In what surely could have developed into a truly perilous situation, he remained calm, put those cerebral talents to good use and slipped free from the grip of danger to arrive unscathed and smiling at MM21.
Anthony Michael Hall is perhaps most well-known for his role as the beloved Brian Johnson in John Hughes’ The Breakfast Club. An original member of the infamous Brat Pack in the 1980’s, he has taken on several television roles in addition to films, most notably the successful television adaptation of Stephen King’s The Dead Zone. He has also recently appeared in the popular television series Warehouse 13 and Community, and worked on the films Sexy Evil Genius and Cottonwood. Our undercover intel operatives have reported that Anthony is currently filming Dead in Tombstone, starring opposite veteran actors Danny Trejo and Micky Rourke.
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To ZSC Brigade leaders and 1st Lieutenants: I’m sending this from a tiny town outside Moab called End of The Line. I’ve holed up in an Old West museum with a Navajo named Joe Holiday. The walkers have thinned out, but that won’t last long. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, so— We Take Care of Our Own is about a tight-knit family dealing with survival amidst the Zombie Apocalypse in a small Midwestern town and was inspired by the The Walking Dead. The treatment of both the graphic novel and the TV series inspired this tale because it’s brilliantly complex, poignant, and shockingly real. We Take Care Of Our Own examines the human reaction in the shadow of the Zombie Apocalypse. I’ll be moving on in the morning with Joe. We’ll be heading to Monument Valley, where his people are. In the meantime, keep up the good fight…I know I will.
Please note because the characters are dealing with a zombie outbreak, this excerpt may have some strong language.
My brother and I are the only two left in Churchville, Illinois, population once 112. I’d say last two alive, but that’s not really right. I’m alive, but my brother, Tom Nolan, is very dead. He’s a zombie now. An undead man walking. Tom used to call them flesh-heads, like the towel-heads he fought over in Iraq, but that was before he got bit. I know I’m supposed to put him down, but he’s my brother, and we promised Dad that we’d take care of each other no matter what. Dad always said, “Us Nolans, we take care of our own.” It’s the six hundred and sixty-sixth day since we stopped using calendars. I only know because 665 is written on the little chalkboard I keep up here. Beneath it are the thin remnants of all the numbers that have been written and erased. I take up the nub of chalk, erase the 5 with my finger, and draw a 6 in a looping motion. 666…the number of the beast. I think of the Iron Maiden song. It was one of my brother’s favorites. I remember their mascot, Eddie; tight dead skin pulled over his skull face. In one of their posters Eddie was dressed like Uncle Sam, grinning and pointing his rotten knife of finger. That’s right; UNCLE EDDIE WANTS TO EAT YOU! Welcome to The Zombified States of America! I lie still for a minute, breathing in the warm attic air; wood and dust, mixed with my own stink. I’ve long taken to sleeping in my clothes. Tom used to say they’d stand up on their own if I bothered to take them off. I don’t sleep very well anymore. Mostly because my mind always goes back over all the things that have happened, and partly because of the Metallica that plays all night long. I play it for Tom, and for me. They were his favorite band, and it helps to drown out the racket he makes the minute darkness falls. I don’t know what it is with flesh-heads, but the night wakes them up, like rats or coyotes; gets their zombie engines runnin’ full throttle and sharpens their senses. Even though Tom is walled up in Grandpa’s bomb shelter, he always knows when night has come. I sit up on my mattress. My butt sinks down through whiny, shot springs to the wooden floor beneath. The emptiness in my stomach howls. Man, I’m hungry. Maybe I’ll find some food today in town. Maybe. The lone window in the attic glows white hot with sunlight that blots out Illinois farm country below and beyond. I pull on my boots, and remember buying them with Dad and my brother. I reach for my brother’s belt and stand up, careful not to whack my head on the low eaves thick with shadows and cobwebs. I thread the belt into my jean loops, and pulling it tight, see I’ve punched six new holes in its cracked leather. My brother used to say I looked like one of those starving children on TV. I take up my shotgun that stands against the wall like a cowboy leaning on a post. It’s a Remington 870 express pump action. Dad gave it to me when I turned thirteen. I’m seventeen now, and I miss being thirteen something terrible. I start down the attic steps, each one creaking its own note like piano keys.
The basement is cool and dark as a moonless field. Morning quiets my brother, and all the Metallica albums on the mp3 player usually run out about four in the morning. I snatch the mp3 player, with its cracked plastic face, out of the speakers it spends the nights docked in. Mom gave us the mp3 player and the speakers. She bought them right after she got herself a eBook reader. Mom said we shouldn’t be afraid of technology, especially if it helped a person appreciate the arts. I guess Metallica, Tom Petty, and Bruce Springsteen are as much art as Mom’s books. I stare for a moment at the thick steel door that keeps my brother safe. I touch my hand to it, wishing I could still touch my brother. I wish I could still muss his hair, or try and make him flinch. He stirs behind the door. I hear the slow clicking and clacking of his teeth, tired from gnashing all night, followed by a low, growling grunt, then silence. I slip the mp3 player into the front pocket of my jeans and bound up the steps, thinking of Mom instead of my zombie brother.
The sunlight leaks into the kitchen around the edges of the ply boards that cover every window on the first and second floor. I hate it because it makes the whole house feel like a cardboard box, lit by seams and cracks, but without them, there’d only be a pane of glass between you and death. Not that plywood keeps death out, ‘cause it doesn’t, but it’s a good first line of defense. I set my rifle on the kitchen table, next to the boxes of shells, and go to my bike angled against the counter. I check its chain and return to the table. Man, I’m tired. I sit down. Just for a minute.
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To read more and find out the depths to which Lord Henry Abercrombie falls, check out Undead Is Not An Option.
Yes, I am well aware that it’s only been a little over a week since the season two finale of The Walking Dead aired. However, that does not change the fact that I sat down in front of my television this past Sunday and whimpered, hoping by some miracle that they managed to write, film, and run the premiere of season three through post-production in a week. No such luck.
So to pass the time, I took a look back through my review notes. These are all from the hand written notes that I took while watching TWD. They reflect, sometimes a little too honestly, my reactions to what’s happening on the screen as it happens.
But, uhm… the zombie bunnies ate the notes from episodes one and two, so we’ll pick up with a couple favorites from episode three.
Episode three:
“The only warning I got before watching was from Mom, ‘When Daryl is the sane one, you know things got bad.’” (Yes, my mother is a fan of the show.)
“Glenn can’t be a sidekick when the wannabe hero has his head wedged and the actual hero is beyond needing his help.”
Episode four:
“Where is God, hidden in the rotting face of a walker?”
“Glenn bait! He’s growing into a hero/walker roper!”
Episode five:
“Glenn needs wooing lessons. Maybe he can ask Shane, apparently women’s underwear melt around him.”
“Daryl’s subconscious kicked up… Merle?”
Episode six:
“Let me play poker against Glenn. Cha-ching!”
“Andrea and Shane are going to shoot each other… (Scene change) or not. Wow.”
Episode seven:
Oops… Apparently episode seven didn’t produce anything amusing note-wise. This may be because I spent all my time yelling at the television and not writing.
Episode eight:
“Go Maggie! Slap Shane again!”
“Do not trust new people… Holy s— Rick!”
Episode nine:
“Rick, honor will get your a– full of buckshot!”
“Do not scare my (yes, I wrote a typo) by trying to shoot Glenn!”
“Andrea drank Shane’s Flavor-Aid”
“Look at big girl Lori using her words…”
Episode ten:
“What the heck?” (That one was repeated a few times…)
“Meat shield!”
Episode eleven:
“Daryl—master of the art of torture.”
“Too close, Carl. [censored]!”
“Oh my God, Dale!” (After that the notes are gibberish)
Episode twelve:
“Yes, Andrea, baby-sit the psychopath.”
“Hey, T-Dog can talk. Wow.”
The rest is variations of yelling at Shane. None of which I can print here due to language.
Episode thirteen:
“Yeah Rick, because the barn is totally walker-proof…”
“I ain’t riding with T-Dog. Crazy driver!”
“Aww… whatshisname died.”
“Jesus promised zombies. Neat!”
“What the heck? Pet zombies with ninja slayer?”
As you can see, I have a lot of fun while watching amidst all of the really tense, biting-my-fingernails-off moments. Did any of you have moments while watching where you unleashed your inner smart aleck at the television screen? Share your witty commentary below in the comments.
A gentleman’s club becomes a refuge for the well-to-do when the dead rise, through one member has a dark secret hanging over his head which threatens all who discover it. One by one the group’s number dwindles, until there is nothing left to do but the unthinkable. This alternate history zombie tale recounts the final days in the life of one of the survivors, as his time – and the 1930s – draws to a dark close.
Please note because the characters are dealing with a zombie outbreak, this excerpt may have some strong language.
The choir invisible isn’t as invisible as it used to be; now streets chime with the tones of their number, and it seems their number grows every day. It is almost as if they have been drawn out into the streets from where they have fallen to join their fellow geaches in some macabre pack instinct unknowable to those of us whose eyes are still bright. Their irrepressible desire for the dark meat disturbs me in ways I have not the words to describe, though Asher seemed able to stand witness to their atrocities with no ill. For the longest time I feared I would be ensconced within the walls of the Athenaeum forevermore, a living ghost who bore witness to the darkest of times. As there is little in the way of outstanding duties to perform, I have decided to use what time I have left to put to paper that which I know, and which I have done. Having had time to consider the alternatives, leaving this note – this memorial to events – is most likely the only way my story will be told. I can only hope some souls exist elsewhere in the city; that this is not in vain. As days pass by unmourned and unmarked it becomes ever more evident to me my salvation is not to be. I have made peace with my eventual demise, and leave this testimony that some part of it may illuminate that which transpired here, as unbelievable as much of it must seem. You may scoff at my telling of events, for they are indeed incredible, but I am not a man of grand delusion nor fantasies. That you are reading this, that you have survived, is enough for me. My name, if such things matter any more, is Lord Henry Abercrombie, though that was not my birth name. I was born in undistinguished circumstances, and by a mix of good fortune and cunning enterprise managed to make good of my existence. Public works may have sealed my reputation, but it was private financing where I truly made my mark, not least of which was scientific funding of up and coming men, visionaries the likes of which rarely achieve their fullest. It was not without some modicum of self-interest in which I bankrolled their endeavors, but I dealt fairly in both contract and company. We were to be the architects of a bright new future. We were to be kings. One of my protégés was a remarkable American named Weston, who had arrived in London after some scandal or other had disgraced him in the face of his Miskatonic peers. He had the most unique notions of chemical understanding, such that I had ever encountered, and was engaged in research in cataloging something or other which was beyond me. I was assured, from men of good standing, if he were to succeed there would be a pretty penny to be made in the use of such information. But that was then. Good fortune and cunning, as I have said, were my hallmarks. Both factors played in my favor on the morn of the twenty-first, as my ritual decreed I savored brandy and a Montecristo in the library on the second floor rather than in the reception rooms with the others. Asher was telling one of his stories about, I believe, some far-flung adventure. The disruption came at the ringing of the ten o’clock bell, with Fairfax staggering in claiming to have been assaulted by a most unkempt fellow. His arm was bloodied, and Caruthers – a fine practitioner of the medical arts – set to attendance. The commotion outside soon became apparent, and the grand doors were closed almost immediately. I ventured down to see what assistance I could provide, but it was clear matters were well in hand. Beyond the confinement of the great club, however, the populace was busying themselves tearing at the walls of civilization. Never in my days had I thought to see Englishmen behave in such a fashion, for it was clear to all it wasn’t the expected troublemakers, but good and honest people who were acting in such an undignified manner on the streets.
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To read more and find out the depths to which Lord Henry Abercrombie falls, check out Undead Is Not An Option.
Known to most for his starring roles in the television series Young Indiana Jones and runaway cult classic film Boondock Saints, Yellow Brigade’s first Lieutenant Sean Patrick Flanery brings to the table a wide variety of talents and experience in matters of survival; Actor, director, writer, martial artist, patriot, purveyor of simple honesty and common sense, and – perhaps most importantly – future presidential candidate. Despite his ongoing struggles with a powerful Reese’s addiction, Flanery is without a doubt the most suited for the daunting task of leadership, and defending our western shores and if and when it all starts to hit the fan.
Believe it or not, you are not entitled to anything. If you find yourself saying “I should have A, B, and C, because I’ve done X, Y, and Z” stop immediately and slap yourself in the face. The world doesn’t owe you something just because you feel that you’ve met some arbitrary criteria that you yourself invented. – Sean Patrick Flanery
Born in Lake Charles, Louisiana and raised in Sugar Land, Texas, Flanery began training in various forms of martial arts at a young age, taking part in his first full-contact kickboxing match at the age of 12. He continued his training while attending the University of Saint Thomas in Houston, but then one fateful day he followed a girl to a drama class and was immediately bitten by the acting bug. Later he moved to Los Angeles and waited tables for a living, before long appearing in television commercials and quickly making the transition to TV roles and onto movies. Flanery has an impressive filmography to boast, and remains today one of the hardest-working actors in the business.
When not working on various projects, including film, television and music videos, Flanery can be found training and teaching the finer points of BJJ to his fellow Los Angelians, attending comic-con events and appearances all over the country, online blogging, interacting with fans on various social networking sites, shopping for frozen pizza or spending quality time with Donut – his most loyal friend, sidekick and quite possibly the coolest canine on the planet. He has taken part in the international USO tour and traveled to the Middle East with fellow Boondock Saints alumni Troy Duffy, Norman Reedus and Brian Mahoney.
Sean Patrick Flanery and Blue Brigade Commander Norman Reedus showing their preparedness for the upcoming Z-pocalypse
Flanery is currently working on the film Dark Power, and will be appearing at Frank Strickland in the TV series Blackout. Be sure to also keep an eye out for the films Scavengers, Phantom, and The Devil’s Carnival.
____________________________________________ Don’t forget to check out our other Fearless Leaders!
Dead Man’s Shoes follows a young man named Carlo when he wakes on the autopsy slab at his local hospital to find that the world has ended and zombies have taken the place of almost every human on the planet. Almost. Carlo meets up with Antoinette as he tries to escape, and discovers that not only does she have strange powers over the walking dead; she seems to know more about Carlo than he does. As Antoinette brings Carlo closer to knowing the role he has to play in ending the apocalypse and saving the remnants of humanity, they are confronted by the demonic source of the plague, a creature named Legion. To battle the demon, Carlo must confront his past, and call upon the Voodoo god of death, Baron Samedi, to fight for the future of mankind.
Please note because the characters are dealing with a zombie outbreak, this excerpt may have some strong language.
Carlo woke up in the morgue. He’d been awakened by screaming, and the echoes of it crashed around in his head. His muscles creaked as he rolled to the side on the examination table and sat, letting the sheet covering him fall away. Emergency lighting cast the room in halogen relief. He heard a soft, wet sound coming from behind the supply cupboard. A woman crouched there. She wore a thin hospital gown, so slick with blood it clung to her body, accentuating what had once been beautiful. She crouched over the body of a heavyset man. She reached down and wrenched a chunk of red meat out of his chest, then shovelled it into her mouth. Carlo gagged at the sight, and the corpse jerked her head up to look at him. Her eyes were milky white, and black veins stood out under the translucent skin on her face. She opened her mouth and hissed at him, a sound not even remotely human. Trying not vomit, he back away and tripped over something solid on the floor. Another moving corpse, its mouth working soundlessly as he fell beside it. Carlo screamed and thrashed back to his feet. Tears streamed down his face as he took in the rest of the morgue. There were five bodies in all, all awake. Only the woman and the body on the floor moved, the others were tied to exam tables. Bloody clothing littered the floor, vaguely medical, in a bio hazard way. He didn’t look too closely, afraid what the clothes might be covering. The dead woman rose slowly, blood dribbling from her open mouth. Her head lolled to one side, and her filmy eyes didn’t blink as she walked towards him. “Get away from me, get…” Carl’s dry throat reduced the words to a croak. She growled, from somewhere deep inside her, and the rotting meat stink filled the air between them. Something was wrong with the way the woman walked, as if she hung from the wires of a drunk puppeteer. He cringed away from her, driving his head back against the wall, his feet slipping in the blood on the floor. She sniffed him, like a dog at suspicious roadkill, then she extended her swollen purple tongue and licked across his eye. Carlo closed his eyes, feeling the dry rasp of her tongue scrape across his face, snagging his eyelid and dragging it open to see the veins creeping under her skin as she tasted him. Just as Carlo thought he was going to pass out, she moved, lurching back to the body she’d been eating. The other bodies still mouthed and grasped at him, but as long as he kept to the walls, they couldn’t touch him. The terror stayed with him for so long Carlo began feeling detached. In a quiet corner of his mind he felt his heart trying to leap out of his throat, his rapid breathing and the sweat running off his face and mixing with the blood on the floor. I have to get out. It was the first thought that counted as a thought instead of a pure terror reaction. He started looking around for the door. There. Tantalisingly close, just past the rows of grasping hands. Carlo took two deep breaths and charged as quickly as he could past the tied down bodies and into the double doors. A heavy chain held the doors closed. Carlo bounced off the doors and landed on his ass on the slick floor. He swore and pushed himself up to his feet. Carlo was a big guy, and he threw himself at the door again, aiming not at the chains but at the bolts holding the door to the frame. There was a loud crack, and the abused door tore out of the wall. Carlo entered the main hospital in a shower of splinters, just about running over a woman who’d appeared just to the right of the main door. They stood blinking at each other. “There you are. Do you have any idea how many morgues there are in this city?” Her eyes flicked behind him. “No, you stay where you are.” She pointed a long white stick over Carlo’s shoulder and unleashed a stream of words in a language that seemed oddly familiar to Carlo. He turned to look at the zombie woman who stood behind him, her mouth hanging open. The creature stood transfixed by the woman in the hallway. There was a long second where Carlo thought the zombie would attack her, but she simply swayed in place for a few moments before grunting and turning back into the darkness
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To read more and find out what happens to Carlo in his battle with Legion, check out Undead Is Not An Option.
Well, hopefully none of you tried to keep a tally of how many walkers kicked the bucket in the season two finale of The Walking Dead. For about a minute I considered trying to keep track, then realized it’d be impossible without a DVR and a lot, and I mean a lot, of spare time, which is in short supply around here. Hey, who do you think cleans out the zombie bunny cages? It certainly isn’t a magical fairy, I’ll tell you that.
We’re going to tackle this in the order that it happened because otherwise someone will get lost. Two guesses who, the first doesn’t count (hint: the person typing…).
That helicopter is going to give me a migraine. We don’t hear anything about it since the pilot episode, and then suddenly bam! There it is again, taunting us with secrets we can’t figure out. My theory is that whoever owns the helicopter is using it to attract the walkers to a central location. Not sure if it is to kill them or contain them. What I do know is that Shane and Carl’s gunshots distracted the walkers chasing the helicopter. Talk about awful timing. One day later and the herd would be gone—all of that death and destruction could have been avoided. Except for one. Shane sealed his fate weeks ago. He just needed the right variables to put it in motion.
A few characters came into their own during the course of this episode. Daryl stepped up to the plate and is set to be Rick’s second in command if he wants it. Hershel flat-out gave me a heart attack. He was awesome with that shotgun, keeping the zombies away from the house with far more skill than I gave him credit for before now. And Andrea…wow. We knew from her training sessions with Shane that she’d become one of the group’s best assets with a gun. However, she proved that any weapon in her hands can and will be used to kill a walker. She’s also come a long way from waiting to die to fighting tooth and nail to survive—even after running so far for so long that her legs just gave out.
Which brings us to the biggest mystery of the season two finale: who was the hooded figure rocking the katana? Fans of the comic book recognized her right away, no doubt. Michonne plays a vital part in the season to come. She is a character to keep a close eye on, folks. Also, did you see her pet zombies? Why can’t I have pet zombies like that, Juliette? Is it because I use a broadsword instead of a katana? I’ll switch weapons! Ahem… ignore that outburst.
Another huge reveal is the fact that the virus isn’t contracted through swapping bodily fluid with walkers (ew) but thrives within every single living person. The disease activates when a human’s body begins to die. This would explain the vast differences in time from when someone is bitten or severely injured and changes to them dying and coming back. Amy’s turnover time still baffles me. She turned at the pace of a living conversion instead of dead. Probably to draw out Andrea’s misery. The writer’s are evil like that.
The Shane Issue segment may turn into the Lori Issue segment. Her behavior as of late irks me to no end. The topper this week is three-fold. First, she managed to lose her kid…again. Then because she couldn’t keep him in the house, she got mad at Rick after Carl was forced to save his life. The icing on the Lori-is-awful cake came when, instead of admitting her role in Shane’s death, she turned her back on the man that literally walked through hell to get back to her and keep her safe once he was there. Some gratitude, Lori. Really. You should give lessons on how to thank people for their sacrifices. It’d give a whole generation of people the fuel you threw on Rick’s fire to make him lay down the law once and for all.
In the end, is Rick’s declaration of a dictatorship really going to fly? As far as I see it, Shane won. He succeeded in what he tried to do since day one when Rick walked into camp and Lori shoved him aside to resume a life with her husband. The group doesn’t trust him now. Most of all, they don’t respect him, or if they do, it is a respect created from terror that some day if they step out of line, they’ll be the next with Rick’s knife buried between their ribs. Will he go that far to maintain order? It’s hard to tell, but we know that season three promises to be as intense as the last three episodes of season two. If that holds true, we may need to start duct-taping Juliette to her seat before new episodes air.
What did you think of The Walking Dead’s season two finale? Have a favorite moment? Share your opinions in the comments below.
Love Me Dead or Alive is the touching… nay… poignant story of Mindy who is attempting to come to grips with her own mortality as her undead boyfriend pressures her to join him so they can be together forever. Titus has more to fear than just his girlfriend’s ticking mortal clock, though; an old school buddy is trying to force Titus’s hand in doing a little doctoring the dead. It’s the age old story of boy loves girl… girl loves boy… boy is dead and wants girl to be also but she isn’t sure if she is ready for that commitment… with zombie monkeys.
Please note because the characters are dealing with a zombie outbreak, this excerpt may have some strong language.
The incessant dinging of the doorbell could either mean trouble or the neighbor kids. Titus opened the door just as Mindy dropped dead at his feet. Again. She needed to stop doing this. He snatched her up off the ground and carried her into his back room, laying her on the metal table. It looked like blood loss was the culprit this time. He lifted her shirt to see two stab wounds. Holy crap. She had to take more time off. Using the searing wand, he burnt the wounds closed while covering his nose. Burnt flesh smelled bad enough, but Mindy’s burnt flesh creeped him out like nothing else could. Finally, when he was certain she wasn’t just going to die all over again, he stabbed the hypodermic in her chest and flooded her heart with the solution before he hit her with the magnetic pulse. “C’mon, Mindy,” he whispered. He watched the monitors for her vital signs to spike. Crap. He hit her again with the magnetic pulse. The beat of her heart made him sigh. Her wounds started closing up as the enriched blood pumped through. Every time he did this he experienced a Dr. Frankenstein moment where he wanted to yell, “It’s alive,” but Mindy probably wouldn’t appreciate it… at all. Then again, he didn’t appreciate her dying on him. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him. “Hey, Beautiful.” Titus leaned over her and brushed some hair from her eyes. “You woke up just in time. I was starting to worry I was developing necrophilia. It turns out you look hotter alive than dead.” She laughed. “So, stop dying on me,” he said. She winced suddenly. “What? What’s wrong?” She really needed to stop the vigilante business. “My shoulder. I think that freak I took down knocked it out of its socket,” she said. His jaw tightened with disapproval as he leaned over and felt her shoulder. She just had to stop. If not for herself… for him…. “Don’t, Titus.” “Don’t what, Mindy? Don’t worry about you?” “It’s not that bad.” He shoved down and pulled on her arm. She screamed in pain and curled into a ball. Tucking his frame around hers, Titus rubbed the muscles on her back. She already showed signs of healing, but that hurt them both every time. “I’m fine.” “You’re not, Mindy. This is getting ridiculous. Do you know how hard it is seeing you dead? No, you don’t because I don’t keep dying on you.” “It doesn’t KEEP happening,” she said, sitting up. “Fifth time, babe. Fifth time,” he said, cleaning up the crash kit he kept near the door for just such occasions. “What if I can’t get to you within eight minutes? You know how complicated it is to restore brain cells in someone with oxygenated blood and a beating heart. They don’t always work right. You could end up as a real zombie.” He threw the syringe in the disposal, and it shattered which actually seemed to help his mood. “Not to mention I’ve never done this more than nine times on anything. Chester might have had nine lives in him, but who knows if you do. You’re a lot more complicated than a freaking cat, Mindy.” She wrapped her arms around him from behind. “Shh, Titus,” she said. Her skin felt warm, and he tried to pretend it wasn’t nice… that he didn’t like the heat radiating off her. He rubbed his hands across her arms. If her skin was cold, it wouldn’t matter; he’d still love her… with all his cold, silent heart.
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To read more and find out what happens to Mindy, Titus, and the zombie monkeys, check out Undead Is Not An Option.
Two weeks in a row it’s been impossible to find a place to start with a review. Days later, I’m still dizzy from the turn of events. Pacing for the second half of season two took a one-eighty degree flip from how we started the season—that painfully long wait to learn what happened to Sophia only to end in heartbreak. We’re still ending on heartbreak, but it seems harsher, more in our faces. If there was any doubt that I correctly labeled TWD’s writers as evil, this week’s episode proved me right. Only twisted minds could create characters like these and make us forget to breathe while they run around a fictional world causing chaos.
This week began with a bittersweet eulogy for Dale, contrasted by the group patrolling the farm for walkers. Something about the combination of scenes left something to be desired for me. They say they’re going to do what Dale would have wanted, make him proud and salvage a broken community. Would he want them to do it that way? They needlessly beat those walkers instead of delivering a humane blow to the head. Taking out pent up anger on the undead is understandable, but doing it in the name of a man that wanted nothing but peace seems wrong.
On a side note, did you all notice that T-Dog used a hammer to dispatch one of the walkers? IronE got to put his weapon of choice to use. Awesome! T-Dog also got to step out of the background more. Hopefully this trend lasts.
There is a glimmer of hope for the survival of the group as a whole in the unlikely form of Daryl. In the weeks prior, we’ve seen him pull further and further from the group. Heck, he set his camp up a good half a mile away from the others to get away from them. But last week he stepped up and did what no one really had the heart to do. After, he told Rick, “You shouldn’t have to do all the heavy lifting.” Daryl sees the stress leadership puts on Rick. He wants to help again. I’m not entirely sure what triggered his change of heart. There are too many variables at work to pinpoint one exact cause.
One variable no one can seem to keep a handle of is Carl. Last week I got a tad nasty and pointed blame where it belongs, on his parents. Shane was right (don’t die of shock) when he told Rick that Carl needed to discuss Dale’s death with his father. That isn’t because a male’s opinion on the matter is any better than a woman’s. Oh no, that is a reflection on how poor Lori’s parenting skills are. I’ve lost count of how many times Carl’s been found far away from the house after she’s been asked to keep him inside. The kid isn’t a magical creature. He has a physical form and can’t dematerialize only to reform in the midst of trouble. How the heck can she consistently fail at keeping him away from danger?
Instead of parenting, Lori is still obsessed with saving her reputation. She confronts Shane yet again about their sort-of relationship. At this point I can’t tell if she is stringing him along on the off chance that Rick dies and she needs a male in her life (and bed) or if she sees the dark path he’s going down and is trying to placate his crazy to keep him in line. No matter her motivation, all she has done is cause trouble between Rick and Shane. It’s hard to tell if this sort of thing would have happened after Rick was shot in the line of duty without the walker uprising putting her in Shane’s protection.
Pro tip for ZSC brigadiers: While it is important to board up possible weak spots in your Safe Haven, spending a day hammering boards in place could have unforeseen problems. The undead in The Walking Dead respond to sound. All of that hammering the group did on the barn and house echoed through the forest, drawing the walkers in closer. The only reason they couldn’t pinpoint the source is because the sounds were too faint to follow after bouncing around the trees. However, something like a gun shot after they are searching for the noises… someone may have well rung the dinner bell.
It wouldn’t be one of my reviews if we didn’t address the Shane Issue. This week I need to put a Spoiler Warning before it. If you have not seen episode 212 of The Walking Dead, turn around and head to safety. After you watch, come back and finish reading.
Shane, Shane, Shane. I’ve spent nearly a year despising you and defending that opinion tooth and nail. You are ruthless, cutthroat, obsessive, and your only redeeming quality is being a good shooter. No one trusts you, not even the people you tried to lure to your side with promises of cookies, or whatever the emotional equivalent is for a psychopath. You could never be a leader of men, not in the way Rick is, and your jealousy over that fact will be your downfall.
Oh wait, it was.
The creepiest scene in this episode possessed no dialog. Heck, there wasn’t even much sound to it at all. Watching Shane sit in the shed contemplating his plans for Randall sent goosebumps up my arms. It takes a great actor and great writing to make me loathe a fictional character so much. Hats off to Jon Bernthal and the TWD writers. This ride watching Shane spiral further and further to madness has been the most entertaining bit of television in years. Shane’s condition created so many discussions about morals in extreme crisis situations. Even when we thought he acted poorly, part of our minds wondered if it actually was the right thing to do. Could we reach that level of practicality he delved into and maintain what it is that makes us human? I’m not entirely sure it is possible.
However, there was nothing right or humane about how he dealt with poor Randall. Was Randall a threat? In my opinion, yes. He acted too much like a weasel to trust him at his word. Rick’s plan to drive him an hour out and drop him off would’ve worked or at least given them time to prepare the farm for possible human attack, which they should have done beforehand. Shane couldn’t leave it be. He had to have his way and in the process illustrated that any dead body, bitten or not, will come back as a walker.
Much respect to Rick for realizing Shane’s plan and confronting him man to man. By that point there were two possible outcomes. Either way, someone would die. Losing Shane is a blow to the group. For all of his insanity, he did a good job protecting them. That is when he wasn’t plotting ways to undermine the authority of the group. If he’d succeeded, the group would have collapsed. None of the others would believe the story he cooked up. Not after the Otis incident came to light.
Will everyone understand why Shane died, though? Can our survivors continue on as they have been? Hell broke loose and is knocking on their front door. The season two finale next week is going to be a doozey.
What do you think about Shane’s demise? Let us hear your opinion in the comments below.
Actor, director, writer, motivational speaker and singer…. Green brigade’s commander IronE Singleton brings to the table an invaluable combination of strength, determination and passion possessed by some but unmatched by none. IronE hails from Atlanta, Georgia and has already faced the shambling horde, looked it right in the eye and refused to give up the good fight for even a moment. Outgoing, gregarious and quick to smile, Irone’s laughter is more infectious than any zombie plague and his endless determination is a shining example to all.
IronE recently got his feet wet in the convention scene by attending Monster Mania 21 in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. While a seemingly endless horde of adoring fans and admirers might have caused some to tremble in abject fear, IronE faced them all with his trademark disarming smile and made each one feel as welcome as if they were stepping into his home rather than standing in line at a noisy, crowded convention.
IronE’s many varied talents have taken him from the University of Georgia to television, theatre and film. He has appeared on the big screen in several films, including The Blind Side, Lottery Ticket, Seeking Justice. And the upcoming film A Box For Rob. Television appearances include pilots for ABC’s Detroit 1-8-7, VH1’s Single Ladies, and TNT’s Franklin & Bash, and he has also appeared in CW’s One Tree Hill and BET’s Somebodies… but most notably he is the one and only Theodore Douglas, a.k.a. T-Dog on AMC’s The Walking Dead. On the theatre side, be sure to check out his inspiring one-man show: IronE . . . The Resurrected. This inspiring story of survival, heartbreak, transformation and healing is a must-see for all.
Under IronE’s experienced leadership, Green Brigade is best equipped to keep up the morale as the battle for survival wages on and we would surely find ourselves in one fine mess without him.
