The first thing R does is ignore the weird-looking mice. Mice meat is better than no meat, but sinking his teeth into, oh, he doesn't know, the guy standing in front of him sounds like a better plan. The hunger keeps pointing at the Tribute's back, as if R's blind in both eyes all of a sudden and insisting he mosey his way over - it's not easy, moseying and shuffling at the same time - and go for the jugular this time. His food can't run away if he's bleeding out on the ground, right? Right.

The zombie's lurch becomes more urgent as he picks up the speed now that he has another target. It's not a run. It can barely count as a slow drunk's jog...but that distance between them is closing. R's proud to say he doesn't groan until he's practically breathing down the man's back. Breathing. Yeah, right.

R tries to hit the Tribute with his best linebacker tackle, grappling to twist him around so he can tear into his neck.