Ever have to hook a line to a three-month-old sea lion carcass to pull it off the breakwall where it shuffled off its mortal coil?
We had to do that several times a year during my billet at Coast Guard Group Monterey.
Dead, bloated, rotting things trailing gobbets of putrid flesh?
They don't faze me. They don't horrify me.
They annoy me. They represent an unpleasant-but-necessary task, and nothing more.
At the same time, I have a much clearer, more visceral understanding of what such a situation would be like. On an olfactory level, among others.
So, no, thank you, I won't participate in your Zombie Walk, and I don't wanna go see Zombieland.