This was it. Race is dead.
He struggled, but the zombie had too good of a grip on him, one of its arms pinning his, the other one wrapped around his neck, tight enough to make breathing an immediate concern. He managed to twist one hand free and clawed at the arm around his neck, which didn't do much good.
His gun was on the ground a couple of feet away, but it was useless to try to get it. He had tossed it to the side when he ran out of bullets a few minutes ago. He had thought he'd killed all the zombies near him, and had been searching for a weapon to go help Spot, but this motherfucker appeared from nowhere. And damn, this zombie was strong. Even as he struggled, his stomach sank as he realized this time he might not survive.
Spot was his backup, (and some damn good backup, too) but he was...somewhere, probably still fighting his own horde of zombies. They had been exploring a warehouse, hoping to find supplies, when they opened a door that, as it turned out, had been holding back a whole swarm of zombies. Spot and Race had quickly been separated in the maze-like warehouse. Hopefully Spot was still alive.
The zombie released his neck, and Race sucked in a gasp of air, but the creature's grip shifted to the side of his hair, yanking his head to the side and exposing his neck. A lance of pain shot up his vertebrae as he fought against the awkward angle, struggling to keep the zombie's gnashing teeth away from his neck. Its putrid arm was inches away from his face, and the smell made him gag. He struggled harder, but he was at an awkward angle and the zombie had too good of a grip on him. He wasn't going to live through this.
He prayed it wouldn't be Spot who had to look him in the eyes and dismember his corpse. He closed his eyes and prepared for the pain of a bite.
He heard a yell behind him, and his eyes shot open. That was definitely Spot, but there was no way he could reach him in time.
Spot's cry sparked something in him. He didn't want Spot to have to deal with seeing Race killed in front of him, and he would be damned if he was going to die without inflicting as much pain on this zombie as he could. His arms were trapped, so he took the only option available to him.
He bit the zombie.
... Not his brightest idea. But the zombie froze, probably surprised by the admittedly bizarre turn of events.
Before Race could even process the change in behavior, he was on the ground. Spot must've gotten to him in time, he dimly thought, but when he glanced up, Spot was still yards away.
He twisted around, attempting to spot the zombie, but he finally registered the putrid, rancid taste in his mouth, the taste of death and rot and decay, and he threw up. Extensively. He struggled to get to his feet, he had to get up before the zombie attacked again, but he barely got to his knees before retching again.
Oh god. He'd almost died. He should be dead. He'd bit a zombie. What the hell.
His vision was blurry, even after he finally stopped retching. His heart was pounding so loudly that he couldn't hear anything else. An overwhelming numbness covered him, enveloping every sensation.
Suddenly, Spot was there, skidding to his knees in front of him, pulling him up onto his knees. Everything seemed sluggish, like it was in slow motion, or maybe underwater. Spot's mouth was moving, but Race couldn't hear anything over the rushing in his ears. His gaze drifted over Spot's shoulder and saw the zombie writhing on the ground a couple of yards away. Spot hadn't killed it yet.
It occurred to him that he might be in shock.
Spot grabbed his face with both hands, forcing Race to look at him. He was saying something. Race didn't know what. His eyes slid away from Spot's face, back towards the zombie.
