Then you become a zombie. The rampant infection or ancient evil or death rays from deep space flood your system and reanimate the basest of motor activity and survival instinct. You seek out sustenance, and like most predators of the wild, no plant nor pre-killed morsel will sate you. You will settle for dogs or cattle, but you inexplicably prefer the bipedal. Alone, you feed on your elderly neighbor Miss Pamela, and on Harold the perpetually flannel-clad couch potato; you team with a modest host of other town ghouls to chew up those mouthy mouthfuls in the nearby detention center. Your hunger rages unabated, and your existence settles into a comfortable, predictable shuffle-growl-feed-shuffle routine.

Beyond this point, the science gets fuzzy. (That's right, all preceding statements arise directly from the empirical results of repeatable goddamn studies and are irre-fucking-futable.) Perhaps your decaying (after)lifestyle continues without end, a high protein diet balanced by an equally effective "aimless stagger" cardio regimen. Maybe, though, like Richard Matheson and Stephen King suggest, lizard-brain reanimation is only the beginning of a new evolutionary process. Maybe you grow weary of constantly filling a belly riddled with rot holes and scratches left by the fingernails of your hapless victims. Maybe you join (or start; no reason you can't show a little initiative) a cult of like-mind-splattered horde members who seek meaning in the voracious immortality you've all acquired. Maybe you gather to growl in unison at some growing suspicion that you are meant for some grander plan, that this meager planet is not the only one you were meant to consume indiscriminately.

Maybe some of your new associates stumble (literally) upon a band's old rehearsal space. Maybe, in a rare moment of irony-turned-reality, it's Aerosmith's rehearsal space, whose members have been the most reliable basis for all current zombie research. In the moment that these undead but undeterred abominations flick on the genny and start diddling the various guitars and wheezy organs and ruined percussive equipment, the Encoffination sound once again reverberates in some small corner of the world. I'm not saying the sessions would necessarily sound like _O' Hell, Shine in Thy Whited Sepulchres_, but if a million zombies hacked away at a million guitars...