The guy-or-monster turned away, and S.T. grabbed for the pipe. He grabbed something else, shorter but long enough, and dropped it over the zombie's head as a makeshift garrotte. Bones shifted inside cloth. It was an arm. It didn't seem to be attached to another zombie, and S.T. couldn't see Target One well enough to see if he'd decided to split the difference and give them a hand. Whatever. It was sturdy enough to try to strangle him with.

Did zombies need oxygen? Shit. He'd grabbed a zombie for nothing. They were one pratfall shy of a Three Stooges short. Harvey went over. Scratch that. Comedy running away, the kind where the mice make it back into the mousehole and look like assholes but live assholes.

Except he was still left holding the zombie. Fuck.