In the genre of horror survival—whether in books, films, or games—language becomes its own kind of survival tool. It’s not just what characters say but how they say it that reveals a world’s internal logic, social bonds, and emotional defenses. In stories where the dead rise or infected roam, the characters often develop their own names for these creatures: “freakers,” “zicks,” “shamblers,” “crawlers,” “fuerthos,” “chompers,” “warmers,” and so on. It’s not random. It reflects a deeper psychological and narrative function.
When characters rename the threat, they do something powerful—they reclaim a sliver of control. Giving something a name helps make sense of it, reduces the unknown, and creates a shared code within a community. It becomes shorthand for danger, experience, and trauma. More than that, these terms reflect how much a group has adapted to its reality. “Chompers” might sound ridiculous in a normal context, but in a world where they’re common enough to warrant slang, it’s a sign that this is the new normal.
Take the scene: characters trading phrases in panicked bursts, blending fear with dark humor and bravado. It’s the kind of dialogue that mimics real stress responses. People joke when they’re scared. They rely on in-group slang to bond and build trust quickly. Someone calling out “fuerthos” instead of “zombies” signals not just urgency but belonging. It says, you know what I mean, and you know what to do.
This kind of language also shapes character dynamics. One character might scoff at the threat—“I’m way faster than them”—while another has clearly learned the hard way that underestimating them is fatal. “I used to be nonchalant about the chompers too till I seen a pack… tear apart my brother.” That contrast builds tension, exposes trauma, and lays down stakes without a single expository paragraph. Even small phrases like “the buddy system. Trust.” say volumes about how survivors have developed rules to stay alive, and why.
And then there’s the fashion detail: “Damn cools got blood all over my Gucci flip flops.” It’s absurd, but that’s the point. It humanizes. Even in catastrophe, people cling to fragments of identity, vanity, or routine. These details ground the horror in humanity. They remind the audience that what’s at stake isn’t just survival—it’s people, relationships, humor, and culture.
Renaming the monsters, using slang, and injecting personal stories into crisis moments isn’t just colorful world-building. It’s a method for making survival narratives feel real. It creates emotional shorthand, comic relief, and cultural texture in otherwise bleak worlds. In fiction, how we talk about the end of the world is often the clearest glimpse we get into what people are willing to do to keep going—and who they become in the process.
