Pride and prejudice and zombies : the classic Regency romance -- now with ultraviolent zombie mayhem! /

Zombies, traditionally, do not move with great speed or agility. As the sheriff in George A. Romero's classic 1968 movie, "Night of the Living Dead," astutely observes, "They're dead, they're all messed up." But they're also mighty persistent, and, apparently through sheer doggedness, the reanimated deceased have managed to occupy increasingly large areas of the popular imagination in the past few years. They don't, of course, reproduce in the usual way. The Romero-type zombie, very much the dominant form these days, multiplies by contagion, like a virus: it feeds on flesh, and its bite is lethal, so even those semi-fortunate humans who aren't wholly devoured, but merely gnawed upon, die and come back as shuffling, hollow-eyed flesh-eaters themselves. It was not always thus. Time was, the mere idea that a corpse could come back to life and walk the earth (however slowly) seemed sufficiently creepy. The monster in Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" did have some anger-management issues, but until "Night of the Living Dead" most resurrected cadavers had been pretty placid. The title creature of Jacques Tourneur's weirdly lyrical 1943 movie, "I Walked With a Zombie," doesn't eat flesh and is entirely unthreatening to the living beings around her; all that's horrifying is the unnatural, unassimilable fact of her existence. That's not enough anymore: nature isn't what it used to be, after all. And to be repelled by a woman just because she has returned from the dead could be considered a tad judgmental. The thing about these newly empowered 21st-century zombies is that they keep coming at you, relentlessly, wave upon wave of necrotic, mindlessly voracious semi-beings. According to the current convention, the individual reanimatee can be dispatched by shooting or stabbing it in the brain, but the strength of this inexorably advancing zombie population is in its numbers: the ambulatory dead are, you might say, a fast-growing demographic. This sort of creature is an extremely convenient monster for low-budget filmmakers like Romero, who had the wit to realize that with zombies he wouldn't have to break the bank on highly skilled professional actors. Anybody can shamble along looking vacant. In fiction, however, these alarming entities have fewer obvious attractions because, unlike vampires, werewolves, demons, witches, goblins and shape-shifters, zombies can't plausibly be endowed with rich, complex inner lives. They don't even have personalities. Christopher Golden, in the preface to his anthology of zombie Stories, THE NEW DEAD (St. Martin's Griffin, paper, $14.99), owns up to a degree of puzzlement about the current popularity of these creatures. "I have never had any trouble understanding the fascination with vampires," he writes. "But zombies? Not so much." Undeterred, Golden has put together a hefty collection of zombiana to take its place on the sagging shelf next to John Joseph Adams's anthologies THE LIVING DEAD and THE LIVING DEAD 2 (Night Shade, paper, $15.95 and $15.99); Max Brooks's WORLD WAR Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War (Three Rivers, paper, $14.95); the freak best seller PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES, "by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith" (Quirk, paper, $12.95); and THE WALKING DEAD: Compendium One (Image Comics, paper, $59.99), which compiles the first 48 issues of the comic, written by Robert Kirkman, that was turned into a popular cable series last fall. All these literary products are, in varying degrees, worth reading, or at least dipping into on one of those days when you're not feeling unambiguously alive yourself. But taken as a whole the recent onslaught of zombie fiction is wearying. There's a certain monotony built into the genre: in too many of these tales, the flesh-chompers advance, are repelled, advance again and are repelled again, more or less ad infinitum. Modern-day zombie stories often read like plague narratives, in which a panicky populace struggles to deal with a threat that's overwhelming, unceasing and apparently uncontrollable. (This spring the Centers for Disease Control, in a playful attempt to stimulate interest in the dull subject of emergency preparedness, issued an online "Zombie Apocalypse Survival Guide." It got so many hits, the Web site crashed.) And because the ravening dead are, by definition, not interesting and are way too numerous ever to be defeated - at least in plague chronicles there's hope for a cure - even the more inventive zombie stories tend to be static: grim annals of hard-won, provisional survival. But that may be the secret of their popularity. With every fashion in horror, it's worth asking, Why do we choose to fear this, and why now? The answers can be more unsettling than the stories themselves. In the case of zombie fiction, you have to wonder whether our 21st-century fascination with these hungry hordes has something to do with a general anxiety, particularly in the West, about the planet's dwindling resources: a sense that there are too many people out there, with too many urgent needs, and that eventually these encroaching masses, dimly understood but somehow ominous in their collective appetites, will simply consume us. At this awful, pinched moment of history we look into the future and see a tsunami of want bearing down on us, darkening the sky. The zombie is clearly the right monster for this glum mood, but it's a little disturbing to think that these nonhuman creatures, with their slack, gaping maws, might be serving as metaphors for actual people - undocumented immigrants, say, or the entire populations of developing nations - whose only offense, in most cases, is that their mouths and bellies demand to be filled. Fear is a primitive impulse, brainless as hunger, and because the aim of horror fiction is the production of the deepest kinds of fears, the genre tends to reinforce some remarkably uncivilized ideas about' self-protection. In the current crop of zombie stories, the prevailing value for the beleaguered survivors is a sort of siege mentality, a vigilance so constant and unremitting that it's indistinguishable from the purest paranoia. This is not a state of mind to bring out the best in our old, tired human nature. It's astonishing, then, to come across a zombie tale like Alden Bell's novel THE REAPERS ARE THE ANGELS (Holt, paper, $15), in which a world that "has gone to black damnation" becomes, somehow, the occasion of a young woman's spiritual redemption. The heroine, 15-year-old Temple, moves easily and violently through a Deep South landscape infested with the menacing dead, living by her wits - which are formidable - and retaining, heroically, a sense of wonder at God's creation, "all that beauty in the suffered world." The zombies are plenty scary (she calls them "meatskins" or "slugs"), and some of the hard-nosed human survivors are barely less threatening. But Temple is blessed with an unearthly composure, in part because she's a post-apocalypse child: this is the only world she's ever known. And, she says, "you gotta look at the world that is and try not to get bogged down by what it ain't." Bell (the pseudonym of a New York writer named Joshua Gaylord) isn't much interested in shocking his readers with visions of zombie inundation, in stoking their primordial fears of the unknown or in spinning lurid fantasies of brute survival. Like his tough heroine, he's too busy looking at the world that is, the one he's imagined into existence. His sentences roll and dawdle, as if moving to the rhythm of the stilled, eerie environment. "The Reapers Are the Angels" isn't in any sense a didactic novel, but there's a lesson in its leisurely manner: if you take the time to see and feel and think, the world, dire as it is, can lose some of its terrors.

This may be the most wacky by-product of the busy Jane Austen fan-fiction industry at least among the spin-offs and pastiches that have made it into print. In what's described as an expanded edition of Pride and Prejudice, 85 percent of the original text has been preserved but fused with  ultraviolent zombie mayhem. For more than 50 years, we learn, England has been overrun by zombies, prompting people like the Bennets to send their daughters away to China for training in the art of deadly combat, and prompting others, like Lady Catherine de Bourgh, to employ armies of ninjas. Added to the familiar plot turns that bring Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy together is the fact that both are highly skilled killers, gleefully slaying zombies on the way to their happy ending. Is nothing sacred? Well, no, and mash-ups using literary classics that are freely available on the Web may become a whole new genre. What's next? Wuthering Heights and Werewolves?--Quinn, Mary Ellen Copyright 2009 Booklist

You'll either love or loathe the idea of this classic rewritten to include hordes of brain-seeking zombie "unmentionables" and a Shaolin-trained Elizabeth Bennett. It is silly, of course, and at times unnecessarily crude (Do we really need this many puns on the word balls?), but it's also a great deal of fun-particularly when Elizabeth dreams about beheading her wayward sister Lydia. Verdict: As Grahame-Smith has retained 85 percent of the original text, Austen aficionados may enjoy seeing the familiar story through this new lens. Fans of satirical zombie films and horror-comedies like Shaun of the Dead and Army of Darkness will enjoy it, too. Buzz is high for this publisher's breakout title, which includes ten discussion questions. Recommended for all popular fiction collections.-Karl G. Siewert, Tulsa City-Cty. Lib., OK (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Adult/High School-Austen's England is overrun with "unmentionables." Etiquette and polite society still reign, but they do become strained when, for example, the ball at Netherfield is interrupted by an attack on the household staff. In this parody, Grahame-Smith maintains the structure and language of the original while strategically inserting zombies into the story. The surprise is how little changes. Elizabeth Bennett is still known for her beauty and intelligence. Here, she is also known for her expertise in the "deadly arts," abilities that only make her a less-desirable marriage partner. There is the constant physical peril that echoes the menace underlying the original. In addition to a life of homeless spinsterhood, the sisters fear having their brains eaten, or being bitten and turned into zombies themselves (a fate to which one character does unfortunately fall prey). The unmentionables also magnify the satirical aspects of the story. A few key arguments, such as the final confrontation between Elizabeth and Lady Catherine, become all-out brawls to the death. (Lady Catherine is famous for her fighting skills and army of ninjas.) And of course Darcy is a renowned swordsman, known for his gentlemanly ferocity. The concept alone is worth a chuckle. The undead are popular at the moment, and teens will be attracted to this clever version of a frequently assigned classic. However, they should be prepared for a somewhat slow read. The author has not accelerated the pace or created suspense in this mashup.-Angela Carstensen, Convent of the Sacred Heart, New York City (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.