Recovery is a bitch (Narrative)
He'd sent the henchmen out for something. He couldn't remember what now. He just wanted them the hell out of the asylum so he could have some time to himself. Which wasn't easy now, what with all the screaming and crying people who had been driven insane by the zombies. The whole place was filled with them. And he wasn't sure what to do with them. He sure as hell wasn't going to feed them. He wasn't even sure how they'd gotten in here.
Definitely before that nutball had impaled him with the thing that had given him life back. All of which he'd had to guess at by himself, because he'd woken up alone with a thing sticking out of him.
Still wearing the zombie makeup.
It was sort of a lot funnier now, that makeup.
Jack's head hurt. His body hurt. His face really really hurt, and he had no idea why. There was redness around his jaw and neck, but nothing more than that to tell him why there would be so much pain. The marks of redness where scratches and bites might have been on his body at one point didn't tell him much of anything either.
Everything felt like crap.
There were problems at hand. Things he should have tended to. But he was in no mood for it. No mood for any of it. He wanted all the other people to go away. Maybe they would starve to death soon. Or maybe he could get somebody to go and kill them all for him.