this silly idea of the deep sea fish and begins to weigh up his options. Stay here where he is exposed or take the offer and get off the street.

I’ve no time for more survivors. I’m helping enough of them already.

The rope hangs there, motionless in the rain and lit from the bottom up by the yellow glow, as if calling out to him, and he realises that it’s him in need of help now. And he should accept it with some level of humility.

There is no wind anymore, just a dead downpour and he looks at his soaking wet clothes. Maybe it would be better to take shelter and wait until he could at least see again in the morning. But to explain to somebody else how he has come to be a zombie, and is somehow no threat to them, could be troublesome.