"Not my best fucking work, hombre," Marcus said honestly. He'd used up a bottle of his own drinking water to rinse the area, and was putting in the stitches more quickly than he'd liked. His hands didn't shake; the needle holder was steady as it pushed the tiny, curved suture needle through the flesh. It helped a lot that the wound had been made by a sharp blade, so it wasn't ragged or torn. But he still had to hurry, and with no anesthetic to keep the patient still... the stitches just weren't going to be as even or pretty as he'd like. "Gonna scar like a bitch. Should stay closed, though. You're doing real good."
He'd started in the middle of the wound, working his way outwards, and honestly lost count of the individual stitches put in; too focused on getting them in quickly during their borrowed time. Luck was on their side in that at least. By the time the noises were close enough to get his attention, the wound looked closed. He even had time to apply a clean dressing, but seepage was going to be an issue... and there wasn't going to be time to have a nice chat about tetanus prophylaxis or the potential need for antibiotics.
"Fuck," Marcus hissed, stuffing his kit back together the second he heard a telltale groan. At least everything more visible now as the sky lightened around them. Dawn was being kind in making the headlight less of a beacon, but it hardly mattered to the undead what time it was. Zombies were tenacious, and didn't often change course without a reason to. He had no idea how many were nearby. It was possible they'd just bypass the alley altogether, but Marcus wasn't sure how smart it was to stay put and find out. Maybe if they were silent enough, they'd go unnoticed.
Maybe not.
He eyed Tom skeptically, knowing that the guy's chances of holding on while riding bitch realistically weren't going to be any greater just because there were some surgeon's knots and square knots keeping his skin together. But the man was small. It was possible that Marcus could still control the bike while reaching around him... but that seemed just as risky as trying to stay put. The last thing he wanted was to undo all the work he'd just done by spilling them both in an accident.
None of the options were good. The only third that he could come up with was the machete and a hope that the number was less than five. Four at one time was his personal record for killing without getting too torn up, and he wasn't looking to challenge that.
Abandoning a man he'd just taken on as a patient never so much as crossed his mind, at least. That much could be said about him. When he spoke again, his voice was very soft, quiet... but still intended for Tom's ears. He hadn't forgotten that the kid was there. "Got any thoughts on how to get out of here, amigo? Now's the fucking time to share."