Ah the fatal moment of the bite. A zombie gets hold of someone, goes for the bite, gets shoved back, lunges forward. They grapple. They stumble. The mouth of the thing, hot and wet and sticky-sweet with the heavy air of rot comes closer. The victim’s hands grip the thing’s neck, choking it, not working at all. Squeezing tighter the skin splits and oozes and the thing keeps pressing forward. It’s maw gapes open, the victim’s arms are shaking now from fatigue and in a panic. He can hardly breathe for the stink of the thing. When the pain comes it’s all over. It has him. Even if he struggles away at this point, no matter what, he’s dead.