Zombies

Interior of an abandoned, boarded-up convenience store. Specks of dust are dancing in the flickering light of a single, overhead fluorescent lamp.

Two weary figures, MICK and JAKE, crouch low against an interior wall. They are lying in wait.

JAKE: How long does it take?

MICK: Huh?

JAKE: Before a person turns. How long, Mick?

MICK: One hour. Maybe less. Why?

JAKE: And it’s one bite? That’s all?

MICK: Yep. Bite, scratch, bodily fluids. Saliva, that kind of thing.

JAKE: How did it all —

MICK: (hushed whisper) Ssssh! Hold still. There’s one right across the street.

JAKE: (peeks through a gap) He’s… he’s one of them?

MICK: Yep.

JAKE: How can you tell?

MICK: He lacks qualia.

JAKE: He lacks what?

MICK: Qualia. A subjective conscious experience. There’s nobody home, Jake.

JAKE: He’s… waiting for a bus? He looks so normal.

MICK: They all do. That’s the damn thing.

JAKE: What… what do they want?

MICK: They don’t want anything. Not anymore. They’re p-zombies, perfect facsimiles. Action, reaction — but only an imitated self.

JAKE: Incredible. He’s talking on the phone.

MICK: Yeah. Full range of behaviors. They shop, they talk, they laugh, they sleep. Poke one with a stick and it lets out a simulated cry.

JAKE: But no qualia?

MICK: Nope. All gone. One bite, an hour tops.