The word zombie pulls forth from him a little cock to the head like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. Eyes squint, brows knit. He's heard of them, sure, he saw white zombie in 1932 when he was fifteen and what she did doesn't look a damn thing like the picture he'd snuck in and watched. I am a Zombie came out in 1940. Doesn't quite meet that mark either.

Somehow, it's a little harder to to wrap his head around this than Sam being a vampire.

His hand curls absently around the doorknob as a thought occurs to him.

"Eats brains daily," he remarks, a sudden dark understanding.