He may not have felt the wounds, allowing him stamina well beyond most and uninhibited by the pain that should have wracked his ruined body, but he wasn't fast. Rigor mortis was enough to give others at least a slight advantage - but once he had a hold of something, he wasn't going to be quick to let it go. The minute his fingertips connect with something solid, whatever lingering vestiges of control were stripped away; he was little more than a frenzied animal, clawing and snarling, trying to scrape away at flesh and get a firmer hold. He'd caught something now, something living, something he could eat-

It doesn't matter where he hits, only that blood is drawn, and he snapped his jaws viciously at whatever was within reach. With any luck, he'd be able to get a decent chunk out of his prey, a sick gurgle issuing from his blood-choked throat.