Survival of the Quickest.

Rust-colored dried blood
is plastered to a face.
If that is what you call it?

No shells in my pistol,
no air in my lungs....
I feel the sensation of falling.

Emaciated hands grope me,
with a ratteling breath,
and a simple blank stare.

Really, this is simple.
He just wants the flesh,
if it is mine, he does not care.

His face is gaunt,
and he has fresh cuts,
infected at best.

My heartbeat sets him off,
every dance of my pulse,
drawing him closer and closer in.

I could scream,
if it would help,
I could quiver.

But he has no conscience.
No guilt in his shell,
he just wants to make me his dinner.

So I think in science,
primal and instinctive,
I only must run faster....

And if this is the case,
anyone pumping blood
will satisfy my almost-captor.

Chucks to the pavement,
sweat rolls off my head,
I know what I must do.

Down desolate highways,
up hospital stairs,
I lead them to the broken,
the useless, but living,
I bring them all to you.