They've got me now. The prize (that's me) they've won. They're eating me. Oh god, are they eating me. I can hear someone screaming -- I think it's me -- screaming at the very top of my lungs. But not for help, Oh-Ho No, not for help. (They never make it in time.) I scream because it's the only thing left to do. The only thing I can do, aside from writhe. Man can I writhe...
Just look at those teeth! Thousands of them, like tiny ships of gold and silver and rotting, cutting across the sea of my flesh. No more running, no more hiding, no more fighting...just the involuntary throes of a man being reduced, bit by bit. Bite by bite.
I persist in screaming, even though the pain has gone now. I think maybe I just want to make this as unpleasant for them as possible. Even in defeat I'm determined to have this one (albeit trifle) triumph: "You may have caught me, you...you with my guts still dangling from your mouth, and you, whose breath still stinks of my son and daughter! You may have caught me, soulless bastards, but it'll be a sober day in Alaska before you enjoy this meal! NOT THIS MEAL! My dignity...dies with me! My honor...lies intact! Feast...from the platter...of defeat...ZOMBIE! For I declare this...A WIN! Ha...ha...I win...! "