Memento mori – from the Latin, remember that you will die or remember to die – sets the somber tone of 28 Years Later. After nearly three decades of catastrophe, it’s only natural for a post-apocalyptic society to become desensitized to death, as clinging to normalcy grows harder with each passing day. In this latest film, humanity is present in the most unexpected corners, even when it seems there’s hardly any left to hold onto.

Twenty years later, Danny Boyle and Alex Garland return – as director and screenwriter, respectively – to the universe that redefined the undead subgenre. And they do it at the right time, when the zombie phenomenon is in the conversation thanks to the momentum of The Walking Dead and The Last of Us. This new chapter picks up the legacy of its predecessors and expands it with a mature, desperate, and human look.

28 Days Later (2002) marked a milestone in zombie cinema. The image of a deserted London, captured with a disturbing rawness, left viewers breathless. How could something like that happen in real life? A virus capable of paralyzing an entire country? At the time, it seemed like fiction. Now we know it is possible, though not necessarily by those infected by the rage.

Far from a plain horror movie, this first film faces the chaos with a sharp social gaze. Amid the empty streets, wild chases, and unleashed violence, the underlying question is: how does a society on the brink of collapse sustain itself? The answer, like the film itself, is disturbing. Some crumble and reveal their darker side. In contrast, others cling to one another, finding strength in unity in the face of the abyss.

For Jim (Cillian Murphy), Selena (Naomie Harris), and Hannah (Megan Burns), the nightmare is much more than dodging jugular-hungry undead. The scariest part comes from other humans. And that is where Boyle and Garland deepen their proposal: the apocalypse as the setting for a moral radiography.

What would you do if the world collapsed? Who would you become if you were literally among the last ones standing? Everyone likes to think of bravery, assuming the role of hero. But… what if you weren’t? What if you ended up being the monster, like the soldiers who turn survival into an excuse for abuse? Or would you be one of those who simply run away, who disappear when the horror becomes unbearable?

The second film, 28 Weeks Later (2007), directed by Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, opens with one of the most disturbing beginnings of post-apocalyptic cinema. After weeks in hiding, a brutal attack by the infected changes everything. Don (Robert Carlyle) manages to escape, but he does so by leaving behind his wife, who desperately screams for help. He survives, yes, but at the cost of his humanity.

The film raises an uncomfortable idea – that salvation is often individual. But that vision begins to crack when the possibility of a community appears as the only viable way out. This movie, which moves from immediate chaos to slow post-apocalyptic reconstruction, travels at a different pace, using big action scenes to restore order.

Just when you thought you were seeing a rebirth, you realize it was only a temporary pause. The threat escalates again, and now it has two fronts: the infected on the ground and the army from the sky. Survival seems impossible, but there is still a glimmer of humanity, some survivors willing to risk everything for a possible cure. In the midst of chaos, sacrifice becomes the last act of hope.

The third edition, 28 Years Later (2025), is not the end of the infected. Conceived as the beginning of a new trilogy, the story is set decades after the original outbreak. The virus never made it off the island. While the rest of the world moved on, England is left isolated, forgotten, and mired in an almost primitive era. Entire generations grow up knowing no other reality than that of mere survival.

In this brutal context, the film explores life and death from an unusually intimate, almost philosophical perspective. It’s a complex look at the human condition, family relationships, and the fragility of community when society no longer exists. Boyle and Garland introduce uncomfortable but necessary questions: Do morals still exist in a world without structure? What if the infected were not just beasts, but a new form of consciousness?

That last idea – introduced through the alpha – opens the door to something radical: What if this type of evolution were not exclusive to humans? The approach remains latent, and leaves fertile ground for what will be the next release, scheduled for January.

In this devastating scenario, the inevitable question is: Who is the real monster? Because beyond horror and blood, these films operate as mirrors, distorted, yes, but deeply revealing – of our fragility, our deepest fears, and also of our capacity for resistance.