Even if I wanted to believe Vic was some harmless zombie who's suddenly sprouted a conscience and a TED Talk-level vocabulary, there's still one enormous, putrid, undead problem:
He looks like hell chewed him up and forgot to spit him out.
I mean, how are we supposed to walk around with that? He's got an exposed cheekbone, a patchy scalp, and a left eye that jiggles like it's hanging on a wish. If we run into strangers, even if we don't shoot him, they will. Out of fear, out of reflex, or out of basic goddamn instinct.
"You can't be serious," I mutter, my pistol still clenched tight. "Even if we don't put a bullet in him, someone else will. We'll walk into the wrong alley and boom—Vic's brain soup. We're not just risking ourselves. We're making him a target."
Benji shrugs, wiping his face with his grimy sleeve. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there."
