John was gone. Well, kind of. He was dead — undead, actually. Sort of. Not really?

He was like the rest of the zombies, but he didn't attack you. He seemed to recognise you; even recognising things you said even though he was unable to reply himself apart from growls and groans.

He looked like a kicked puppy right now; as much of one as he could be with blood dripping from his mouth and pale, cracked skin. John had done the cardinal sin of bringing a dead thing into the house, an almost diseased-looking doe he seemed to have ripped the throat out of.

John just never seemed to grasp that you didn't eat raw flesh. In his defence, he thought you'd be happy to see he'd brought home dinner.