Morgan Barod had always thought of zombies the way that his 21st century ancestors had thought of Frankenstein: as stylized monsters played for laughs, and even sympathy. There was nothing to laugh at about this thing, though: it was shrouded in the same sort of stain that had led Morgan to it, its body was bloated and straining under the noxious gasses and liquids that had built up under its skin, and when it perceived Morgan the zombie scrabbled at the transparent aluminum door between it and him.
It should have been terrifying. It was definitely disgusting and horrific. But apparently the zombie had forgotten how doors worked, because it only pushed and slammed at the barrier instead of using the doorknob. And since the door looked like it could keep on handling the stress, Morgan drew closer. There was some kind of square, hung around the zombie’s neck.
The zombie pounded more on the clear door as Morgan came closer, which gave him a clear look of the handwritten sign draped around the zombie’s neck. At that point Morgan did feel a little sympathy: the sign said PLEASE KILL ME. And, now that he was closer, he could see that the zombie’s hands were roughly bound in bags and elastics, and that its teeth were scattered on the floor. Whoever this was, he had taken steps to keep other people safe before he died and turned.
Morgan Barod readied the bat with one hand, while reaching out carefully to turn the doorknob. “Sure, friend,” he said softly. “Anything for a hero.”