Dark and stormy sepiatoned bayou prologue hits H.P. Lovecraft's g-spot. Joe the piratical pornographical plumber unclogging the ectoplasmic ducts. "I'm a doctor. And I don't want to accept irrational explanations!" Let's get this straight, Warbeck. It's not about what you want. This is dream horror, woven from the self-reflexive antilogic of dreams. Emily is a strange person to be friends with, but Liza bonds with her instantly. We hook up autopsy subjects to brain-wave monitors as a matter of course. Warbeck blasts the window and all the glass flies inward impaling the unfortunate Dr Harris. Warbeck blasts zoms ineffectually in the torso even after figuring out the one simple headshot trick. Dream. Freeze-frame. Crash zoom. Deserted hospital. Where is everybody? Let's try the laboratory! Where the fuck did those tarantulas come from? Mouth-defiling orifice-entering crawlers marching to that brain-scraping creaking sound. Nails on blackboard. Nails on eyeballs, bathtub hairballs. Dicky the attack slash guide dog chomping down on unfresh zom. Blood is Fulci's base ingredient, the perpetual broth of his maggot-mulched, grue-glutted ramen. And finally the gates of hell stand open. ( )