Harvey lunged, good solid hit. Except the pipe went through the zombie like a bike wheel through roadkill. Smelled worse than shit but wasn't slowing it down.

There was blood all over Harvey. Fuck. "You're making it worse. Hang on," Sangamon said. He grabbed for the zombie's shoulders. Throw him on a shelf, get some pressure on the wound, hope it didn't revive and cut his head off while he was distracted. Emergency trauma looked so much simpler on T.V., and here the nearest ER was filled with dog-sized rats, brainwashed patients, zombie doctors. So either it wasn't as bad as it looked, or morning needed to get cracking.