He stopped backing away abruptly. If zombies could answer questions, then they must have some sort of awareness, something he could touch... "Then he still has a mind. That rage isn't just a psychic imprint." He grabbed hastily at the dead hands that reached for his right heart, holding them still for a moment, almost buckling as the flood of Tom's anger became a hurricane. "Oh, no, you don't," he snarled, fighting back a sudden urge to just grab the aerosol from his pocket and torch the creature right then.
"And if he's got a mind," he continued, almost gasping the words as he struggled to hold onto his self-control, "I can reach him. I can stop him." Or, if he wasn't as good as this as he needed to be, he could end up fully under the sway of the zombie's blind hatred himself, but if he succeeded, Merci wouldn't need to know that...
With a swiftness borne of desperation, he shoved Tom's hands aside before releasing them, shoving his fingers into the rotting flesh of the young man's face and his mind into Tom's own, both going rigid with the suddenness of the merge.