The arm rips off with a disgusting squish, black oozing up out of the puncture wounds, and goes spiraling off into the back of the crevasse. It thuds against the wall. R jolts forward as his balance is thrown off, the zombie sliding even closer than he was before. He hangs onto the wolf like it’s going out of style. The stump where his arm used to be flails around like he’s still trying to use it to grab onto Atticus, which, in his mind, he is. Now R has a big fist of black fur, enough to drag himself close and bury his face into the other Tribute.

Okay. Yeah. So biting into a wolf isn’t working like R thought it would. All he gets is a mouthful of fur and R’s even trying to gnaw away for all he’s worth, too. Doing it with a horde would be easy, but with Atticus squirming and snarling in his arms like a wild thing, R finds out holding on at all is harder than it looks. It feels like he’s freshly dead all over again, trying to learn the ropes. It’s when he struggles to push the wolf down to the ground that R’s hold slips…