Best 174 quotes in «zombie quotes» category

Mi amigo M dice que lo irónico de ser un zombie es que todo tiene gracia, pero no puedes sonreír porque se te han podrido los labios.

No, not really. But …” Okay, I couldn’t help but gloat a little. “She likes me.” Samedi didn’t even look at me. “Well of course, you’ve had that bloody uniform on all day. I was half ready to tell you how much I liked you.

My dad gave me a present once,' Nico said. 'It was a zombie.' Reyna stared at him. 'What?' 'His name is Jules-Albert. He's French.' 'A... French zombie?

No amount of wavy blond hair nor evenings spent with her plump lips applying just the right amount of pressure to his various pleasure points could make up for the rotting carcass of a soul that resided beneath all that beauty.

Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Two more and I’ve won. I hear the same girl—she must be standing close by—whisper, “Come on.” On the ninety-ninth push-up, Reznik shoves me down with his heel. I fall hard on my chest, roll my cheek against the asphalt, and there’s his puffy face and tiny pale eyes an inch from mine. Ninety-nine; one short. The bastard.

My Zombie apocalypse plan is simple but effective; I fully intend to die in the very first wave. Seems more logical than undergoing all kinds of hardships only to die eventually anyway (through bites/malnutrition/or terminally chapped lips)

Nobody knew exactly how the zombification process worked, and there were as many different strains as theories.

Now you walk in Paris alone among the crowd Herd of bellowing buses hemming you about Anguish of love parching you within As though you were never to be loved again If you lived in olden times you would get you to a cloister You are ashamed when you catch yourself at a paternoster You are your own mocker and like hellfire your laughter crackles Golden on your life's hearth fall the sparks of your laughter It is a picture in a dark museum hung And sometimes you go and contemplate it long

Nowdays, Rosie the Rivetere was a former soccer mom who had just opened her own catering business when Last Night came down and her husband and kids were eaten by a parking attendant at the local megamall’s discount- appliance emporium.

One day private ringer you're going to smile at something I say and the world will break in half.

Sal turned, an eye stalk hanging from his teeth.

People say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. It's not. It's eye bloody spy.

Perhaps that's a smile on Delia's face-but Delia's half skull turns every expression into a leer. She says, "Your uncle had a talent, kid. He made families wherever he went.

Pining for things we lost is the same as hoping for things that can never be. Both roads dead-end in despair.

Posthumous retention of copyright is really a gangrenous foot-in-the-door for the coming zombie apocalypse. And who in tarnation really wants that?

Private Zombie, did your mother have any children that lived?" "Sir! Yes, sir!" "I bet when you were born she took one look at you and tried to shove you back in!

Remember. Observe, assess and act. No hesitation. No remorse.

People talk about survival. What they mean is killing the other guy.

Returning my voice to a conversational level, I called back, “Nora, I’m not attempting to embarrass you or single you out. I know you’re capable. But stay behind Chas, okay? You die, you d i e permanently, and for various reasons that we’ve already gotten angsty about together, I don’t want that to happen.” “Okay, okay,” she sighed. “Angsty?” Chas asked. “Ooh! Later, details!” “Yes, later.” With that, I waved the team forward.

She became extremely aggressive and almost animalistic. It was as if she reverted to a savage state with only one instinct... to attack the uninfected.

She acts all scary, but she's been unusually nice to us, so... I know! She's the Tsundere-type zombie, amiright?!

She's hurt and still imagines I'd worry about him for even a second ? I touch her shoulder. Her touch her shoulder. Her dark hair brushes the back of my hand. Her dark eyes shine. Their brightness goes all the way down. "You found me," she says. I kneel beside her. I take her hand. "I found you". "My back is broken,"she says. "I can't walk." I slide my arms beneath her. "I'll carry you".

She gave herself a hard twist and fell into a sitting position, staring at me with those maggot-filled doll’s eyes.

She played me with a bad hand, and I fell for it every time.

She smiled at him like a freshman invited to the senior prom. It made my blood boil.

That’s the thing about the collapse of civilization, Blake. It never happens according to plan – there’s no slavering horde of zombies. No actinic flash of thermonuclear war. No Earth-shuddering asteroid. The end comes in unforeseen ways; the stock market collapses, and then the banks, and then there is no food in the supermarkets, or the communications system goes down completely and inevitably, and previously amiable co-workers find themselves wrestling over the last remaining cookie that someone brought in before all the madness began.

... she wore a masterpiece smile with smudges of paint and graphite across her cheek, and her eyes were a Jackson Pollock painting.

She was such a sweet and funny person. To see her looking like something he has come to hate was a shot to the heart.

Smiling, he handed Landry the bloody aluminum bat Warnick had used. ‘Time to die, old man,’ he said.

Someone had bashed his head in, perhaps to put him out of his misery, but more likely to keep him from coming back as a zombie.

So, you're telling me the zoo commissioned you to make a zombie panda in order to avoid a potential international incident.

The absence of wish, to analysis yourself, the surrounding world, and what you are doing. Is the logical, and philosophical proof, of zombie mind, and consciousness.

That's old world stuff. It's the ZA now.

The night was blustery and raw, with a chill wet wind blowing down the avenues, and when Rose and I met Françoise and her son and a friend at La Lorraine, a glittering brassiere not far from L'Étoile, rain was descending from the heavens in torrents. Someone in the group, sensing my state of mind, apologized for the evil night, but I recall thinking that even if this were one of those warmly scented and passionate evenings for which Paris is celebrated I would respond like the zombie I had become. The weather of depression is unmodulated, its light a brownout.

The glove comes off, flops loosely over, and there's suddenly horror beating into his brain, smashing, pounding, battering. He reels a little in his chair, has to hold onto the edge of the table with both hands, at the impact of it. A clawlike thing - two of the finger extremities already bare of flesh as far as the second joint; two more with only shriveled, bloodless, rotting remnants of it adhering, only the thumb intact, and that already unhealthy-looking, flabby. A dead hand - the hand of a skeleton - on a still-living body. A body he was dancing with only a few minutes ago. A rank odor, a smell of decay, of the grave and of the tomb, hovers about the two of them now. A woman points from the next table, screams. She's seen it, too. She hides her face, cowers against her companion's shoulder, shudders. Then he sees it too. His collar's suddenly too tight for him. Others see it, one by one. A wave of impalpable horror spreads centrifugally from that thing lying there in the blazing electric light on O'Shaughnessy's table. The skeleton at the feast! ("Jane Brown's Body")

Then she was there in the doorway of the ambulance at his feet. She jumped up like a lion, then stood up on two feet like a human. Her hair was thick and full. She had a mouthful of giant teeth. He could see four pronounced canines in the front and strong claws where her fingernails had been. Her strong body was shriveled and emaciated with her ribs and hip bones sticking out prominently like a concentration camp victim. Her stench was overpowering, like a deer carcass left to rot on the side of the road.

Then there’s the kind of zombie I’ve become now: the one who has lost everything—his brain, his heart, his light, his direction. He wanders the world, bumping into this, tripping over that, but keeps going and going. That is life after death.

The ode to coffee: no coffee means no yippee, no jubilee, and no wannabe for this zombie.

There’s no better way for a woman to punish a man than to make him sleep away from her.

The people inside the gym didn’t stand a dead drunk’s chance.

‘There’s no time for right or wrong,’ I said.

The only thing that will ever be real, is this moment,' I turned to the statue, 'when you made me feel alive, when you made me feel real, when I felt like you really love me. Now? I'm just your monster, Frankie. I will always be a monster.

There's no right and wrong anymore. Just living and dying.

There’s nothing worse than delivering bad news to women. I hoped I wouldn’t get good at it.

There was always so much going on. Never any time to stop and smell the roses. Never any roses to stop and smell anyway.

There was no heaven here. Eternal life meant waking up as a putrid corpse.

These days he was like a zombie, all grim business, just another jerk with an erection.

The rumor claims that the shambler virus is now airborne. It can be contracted without getting bitten now.” – character quote

The ugly people aren't accepted so far... but so far I don't the problem is ugly thing... it's because they are zombies... so far you can have and a night with a zombie!

They made a major mistake," he blurted out, "the dumb bastards, when they didn't start by killing you first." "Benjamin Thomas Parish, that was the sweetest and most bizarre compliment anyone's ever given me." I kissed him on the cheek. He kissed me on the mouth. "You know," I whispered, "a year ago, I would have sold my soul for that." He shook his head. "Not worth it." And, for one-ten thousandth of a second, all of it fell away, the despair and grief and anger and pain and hunger, and the old Ben Parish rose from the dead. The eyes that impaled. The smile that slayed. In another moment, he would fade, slide back into the new Ben, the one called Zombie, and I understood something I hadn't before: He was dead, the object of my schoolgirl desires, just as the schoolgirl who desired him was dead.