"Dog!?" Clay squeaked, voice simpering out like water being wrung from a rag, "Wait--"<br/><br/>This... the baby zombie struggled with the details.<br/><br/>Normally he was a quick minded creature, kind of came part and parcel of being hypochondriac along with dangerous levels of germ related paranoia and a good strong dose of jumpiness a day; it was all in the small print. Given any NORMAL day Clay could have recited you every note to Beethoven fifth at the snap of his fingers, could have worked out vast, complex equations like child's-play and wouldn't have been caught out by any type of trick question.<br/><br/>Today-- in fact right that second ever basic brain function had slowed to a dead crawl.<br/><br/>This could have meant a number of things; First being that his fuse had blown due to over-zealous stress levels, second hinted that maybe he was turning into a full blown, 1960's brain-munching, groan-producing good, old fashioned zombie and finally and possibly most terrifyingly it meant that there was a pretty girl/gorgeous woman about-- they had terrible tendencies to cripple his social skills....<br/><br/>Clayton, still a pure bred teenager through and through found his gaze caught between the nightmarish amounts of slobber still encased in the so called 'dog', the strange, but... disturbingly beautiful face of the newcomer and the cavernous cleavage of the other one...<br/><br/>She'd told him off.<br/><br/>"It's not a dog! It speaks!!" Clay squeaked leaping back a good foot, eyes saucepan wide. He ran a bony hand through the remaining tufts of dark hair for panic, "Who the hell are you all!? No-- WHAT the hell are you?!"