A normal person with any shred of self-preservation would've shied away, tried to bring up their other arm to block the jaws from closing in because Jesus Christ it's a wolf. Funny thing about being Dead: you lose that instinctive oh-shit reaction. It's easy for Atticus's fangs to close in on R's arm above the crook of his elbow, even easier to puncture through the parka's down and start tearing into dead skin and muscle because R isn't trying to fight him off. The zombie doesn't help things by trying to twist toward the wolf, letting Atticus get a better hold on his arm.

He reaches with his other hand, grabs a handful of black fur and starts pulling himself even closer, ignoring the arm.

R tells himself that he's never had a wolf/man/thing before. For all he knows, this won't just end up with him coughing up hairballs and feeling hungry all over again. He might even get some interesting memories from Atticus.

The zombie continues to try to drag himself closer, his mouth wide, as the arm in Atticus's jaws begins to tear off and hangs by shreds of ligaments and mangled parka, only seconds away from coming off completely.