Our company co-wrote a zombie story, then AI reviewed it in the style of a French philosopher

The Content Engine is a remote work company, and it’s always a challenge to create a sense of social connection in a world without coffee breaks. So every Friday morning, we have a 15-minute call where we chat about random stuff: weekend plans, work stresses, and… zombies.

One Friday a few months ago, it emerged that at least three different people in the company had been having side conversations about what they would do in a zombie apocalypse. This probably tells you something deep about the psyche of the people who choose to work here, but we’ll leave that for now.

Instead, let’s look at what that offhand Friday chat spawned. We’re a team of creative people so I decided to set a creative task, for no reason beyond summer escapism: co-writing a zombie short story. These were the instructions, and the result - The Zombie Engine - is at the bottom of this article, in all its surreal glory.

The idea: TCE co-creates a short story featuring a zombie apocalypse. Bonus points if you include the words “content,” “unit” or “marzipan.” Lose a point if you ask ChatGPT.

The ask: write a sentence, then strikethrough your name and ping the next person on the list to write their sentence.

For the uninitiated, content units are the way we structure our work as an agency, so this was kind of an inside joke. Marzipan was entirely random. I was probably hungry when I wrote the brief.

Beyond vetoing an ending where the main character woke up to realise it was all a bad dream, I let the experiment unfold naturally, and I was impressed. I expected some creative flourish, but I was struck by the variety of ways in which ‘unit’ appeared, whether smuggled inside other words (gunite, opportunity, munition) or used in a fresh way. “An absolute unit of a zombie kangaroo” is a neologism that feels completely natural. I was a little cautious about foisting obligatory fun on the team, but everyone from graphic designers to our data scientist seemed to revel in word play and whimsy. There was also a pleasing momentum, as the action spiralled from one glassy-eyed zombie kangaroo to a whole zooful of tainted non-dead beasts.

But who cares what I think? This is 2024, so the obvious thing to do was to stick the story into ChatGPT and ask for a literary critique. Hearteningly for an organisation that makes money out of being good with words, we got a pat on the head:

This story has a fresh premise and a strong foundation with its imaginative concept and lively humor. With some fine-tuning in character development and pacing, it has the potential to resonate even more with readers. Keep writing! Your style shows great promise for both storytelling and capturing the absurdities of chaotic worlds.

The irony of a technology which will make it ever more difficult to be a writer urging us to ‘keep writing’ in a perky, avuncular tone was not lost on me. Seeking a different perspective, I asked ChatGPT to give a criticism in the style of Roland Barthes, the French philosopher notable for his essay The Death of the Author. Back in 1967, Barthes argued that an author’s intentions in writing a text were less important than the structures of language itself and the perspective of its readers. Basically, he took individual agency out of writing, in a way that felt provocative last century, and feels chillingly prescient in this one.

But let’s get back to the zombies. Here’s an extract of what ChatGPT had to say, channelling Barthes:

The readers of this short story are beckoned to relinquish their traditional interpretations of zombies and survival narratives to uncover deeper layers of meaning. Is the marzipan merely a remnant of forgotten normalcy, or does it serve as a critique of society’s obsession with comfort food as a balm against existential dread? The story does not provide definitive answers; instead, it invites readers to navigate their own pathways through the narrative’s chaos.

On one level, generating stuff like this is fun: who knew our silly summer story was probing society’s existential dread? On another, it’s frightening. Who will think the thoughts and write the words when AI can spew out critiques like this so instantly and effortlessly? I studied theorists like Barthes as an English literature student and I can’t imagine what that experience is like today or what it will be like in the future. While you could argue that a world without pontificating English grads is not armageddon, AI raises profoundly troubling questions about how we will learn, think, create and work.

For me, there’s a metaphor beyond marzipan in our short story. Gen AI feels a bit like the zombie. Is it dead or alive, sentient or senseless? Is it a statistical machine, simply built to predict which word will come next in a sentence; or has it acquired a capacity for critical thought? Is it going to shamble relentlessly through the creative industries turning us all into drones?

Personally, I want to react like a character nobody bothers to write into an action story: the one who hides under the bed and hopes the zombies will just go away. Professionally, this is not, of course, a viable option. I’ve written The Content Engine’s policy on generative AI (built on the principles of quality, transparency, value and collaboration) and oversee an approach based on experimentation. Last year, the whole company spent a day generating AI content so we could learn from the results; this year, we have a working group that will focus on CustomGPTs, event content and analytics reporting. I’ll be writing this work up here as we go. But for now, I’m going to end on a more positive note.

One of the advantages of AI is that it can do the boring stuff, allowing people to focus on more rewarding or challenging work. As an example, Nell, a designer, loves an AI tool that helps her quickly find stock images. The dream is that less time on fiddly tasks, whether image searches or cut-outs, means more time for creating beautiful artwork or having conversations with clients about the look and feel of their brand. And also, perhaps, more time for fun. In the middle of summer, Nell lit up our company whatsapp chat with these posters that she created for our story, using an AI app called flux fal playground.

As Nell says, “The app is very intuitive and easy to use. While it could use some improvements, the results are decent enough.”

How did she prompt it? “I just picture the poster in my head and start coming up with prompts based on that. I usually have to tweak things a lot before I get good results, but I'm still figuring out the easiest way to prompt. So far, I’ve realized that if you really know what you want to create, it’s much easier to describe the image.”

Let’s hope the AI era will be more about productive partnerships, less about a creative apocalypse.

The Zombie Engine

(Written entirely by humans)

We never really thought about the nutrient content of almonds before Z-Day. A single unit of the teardrop-shaped edible nut is now a commodity, with the power to make people momentarily forget the chaos. Looking at each other in disbelief, we instinctively form a circle around the immaculate little packet of perfectly formed marzipan carrots. The best-before date was March 2020, and we roll our eyes remembering a time when we thought Covid was the apocalypse.

‘Hurry up and get some protein down you,’ Sheila orders in a low voice, sweat dripping down her lined face. ‘It’s about time we got moving.’

Biting quickly into a marzipan carrot, Bruce felt content for the first time since the reckoning.

Strangely, the tip of Bruce’s marzipan carrot had turned the colour of the empty gunite swimming pool at his aunt's house. But hunger prevailed, and he wolfed the remaining contents down, before facing the others.

The circle began to fight over who was next, Sheila grabbed the packet to restore some order. Alex sat slumped in the corner watching intently under his hood, ignoring the drip of, who knows what, from the pipes above. His nut allergy made surviving the apocalypse harder than most. Food was scarce, often unlabelled. He couldn’t be near that packet, couldn’t consume the contents, not even one unit of marzipan. He glowered, oscillating between jealousy, anger and hunger. He spat: “ptah, almond meal”. The group turned around at the intrusion.

Before anyone could offer reassurance, the distant sounds of the undead echoed through the abandoned building, reminding them that staying in the same place for too long was a risk. "Let's move", Sheila urged, tucking the precious packet into her bag. Survival meant sticking together, even when tensions ran high, so they quietly packed up to continue on through the desolate remnants of a world they once knew… Except for Steve, who tripped over a discarded yoga mat and set off a cascade of antique teacups clattering down the stairs. As the group scrambled to recover the contents of Steve’s backpack, shovelling marzipan into any space they could, a guttural groan made them stop in their tracks as an absolute unit of a zombie kangaroo shambled through the doorway.

“Stevo, get up,” yelled Bruce as he began hurling the few teacups that had survived the fall at the undead beast that now blocked their exit, his brief contentment as shattered as the remnants of a bygone era that lay at their feet.

The infection in the ‘roo had likely left it blind, the filmy sheen over its eyes a telltale sign they’d seen in man and beast for days. But just because it couldn’t see them, that didn’t mean it couldn’t hunt them down.

Steve and Bruce snuck past the blinded kangaroo, desperately running after Sheila and Alex who had found a window to escape from, out of which was an old rickety air conditioning unit. ‘This way! We can climb the unit and get to the roof! Maybe a helicopter will see us!’ shouted Alex. The ‘roo, unbeknownst to the group, had a hankering for marzipan, and followed its sweet scent, barging through the window and falling 8 storeys to the ground below…

The group rushed to the edge of the broken window to look down at the now deceased ‘roo sprawled out across a zebra-crossing. ‘What a tragic way to go,’ Sheila sobbed.

Alex, the only one who hadn’t eaten any marzipan, decided this was his opportunity to scope the building out for any more of the beasts, whilst the rest of the gang tried to seek help on the roof. Content with his decision, Alex slowly made his way down to the 7th floor only to be stopped by an angry mob of ‘roo all staring at him with hungry eyes…

He could go no further. In front of him was a sea of living dead, and strangely exotic, animals. Kangaroos were half-hopping, elephants mechanically stamping, uni toads flapping - all were shuffling. “The zoo has been contaminated,” called Shelia down the staircase that led to the roof with a view of the whole city. “All the cages are empty.”

Before the fear had time to fully set in, Alex’s mind searched for a half forgotten quote, before it came to him, clear as day: “if you want to see how animals live, you don’t go to the zoo, you go to the jungle.” Now the jungle had come to him. Would these altered animals, these mutated beasts be content with freedom, or was it something else they desired? Alex didn’t know. All he did know was that they needed to get out of there. Fast.

He took a deep breath and whispered to himself…”the creatures might be content for now  but they are coming for us”...and Alex started to descend the staircase.

Fueled by fear and a gnawing hunger (having not had any marzipan), Alex approached the animals, with a pipe from the air conditioning unit in his trembling hands.

It was the snake that intrigued Alex the most, though that may have been a contentious opinion. Its swirling, slightly frenetic motion was intoxicating, halting him and his makeshift munition in their tracks.

Whilst he was captivated by the snake, all the other animals stood up, a wall of undead beasts moving towards him in absolute unity.  The contents of their minds unknown to him, all he could think about was the swirling snake, and his intense hunger.  He snapped out of his trance and looked for escape.  He saw a Greggs.  Refuge!  And marzipan? He closed his eyes and ran, pipe first into the mele….. Seeking sweet (and savoury) shelter.

He slammed shut the glass doors and looked at rows of cold steak bakes with hungry eyes.  The snake trailed closely behind, but instead of striking at Alex, it coiled around the door’s handles to seal it shut. Alex marvelled: The snake wasn’t his predator. It was his protector. A small mercy, at last, for a man with a nut allergy in a world of marzipan.