Barely, I can feel his teeth digging into my forearm. He’s chosen life, then, a slow, painful wakefulness. As my blood and flesh pass through his system, the antibodies will do their work, but no one will be there to help him.
Clinging to the side of the van, I watch his vacant gaze following us as we drive off.
Has it already begun to work? I wonder. Are those lost flickers of humanity returning to him?
He will wake up to a cold world, I know, and no matter how useful he is, he will always be a zombie.
Tale Told 