It was hard to describe what had happened to Mark as a revelation, but it got him to think differently at least. Staring idly at the arm he just sawed off, confetti flesh drooping from a stump rimmed with a rubber tourniket, Mark was slightly puzzled. His head slid to look at his right hand, in it; the blood-stained hacksaw he just used to amputate his left arm. Mark smiled devilishly at his deed. He was filled with valor, lying in a mild puddle of blood, biting down on a wood block, missing every limb but his right arm. The disease spread so much faster than he thought it would have, and it was the only way he could survive.
Mark limped around his warehouse laboratory, getting adjusted to being so much lighter. He moved towards his right leg, lying dead on the ground, and eyed it pensively. Mark dropped to the ground and began to eat his leg. He didn't know what consumed him to do so, but he did it anyways. And why his right leg? He wouldn't have had to move to start eating the left arm he just recently sawed off. It didn't matter. Mark was determined now. It took a while, but eventually Mark had consumed all the limbs he just sawed off, his belly distended and pocked with stretchmarks, his lips crispy with dried up O negative. Mark decided in his mind that it wasn't enough. Clearly engorged, he was blind to his own condition and left the warehouse in search for more flesh. He entered his house, adjacent from the lab, and began the search for his wife. She was still asleep, and Mark enjoyed the fact. He climbed on top of the bed and, using the hacksaw he carried from the lab, sliced into his wife's abdomen. Blood and some coiled intenstine shot out from the incision, and Mark's eyes grew wide with ecstacy. Immediately he begun to dig in, and then his wife finally awoke. She began to scream until Mark grabbed her jaw with his only remaining arm, pulled her face to his, and bit her tongue off. A geyser of hot crimson liquid sprayed Mark sqaure in the eyes, which fueled his hunger even further.
Standing above his half-dead, quarter-eaten wife, Mark heard a knock on the door frame behind him, and turned around to find his 6 year old son, wearing a puzzled face. With all the speed of a one-armed torso fueled by the hunger for human flesh, Mark leapt from the bed and bit into his son's head, biting off half of his face. His son cried in agony and attempted to run away as Mark swung his arm around and grabbed his son's bed clothes and reared him back. The sight of his son's rare, meaty tuchus caused his rotundus appetite to kick in to overdrive, and Mark bit into his son's buttocks with the widest jaw he could muster, and came away with nearly an entire butt cheek.
It wasn't until noon that Mark emerged from his now blood-soaked house, his abdomen ripped to shreds from undigested human entrails and flesh spilling out in a trail behind him. Limping helplessly to the local downtown bank, he flung the doors open and yelled, brandishing his sawed-off 12 gauge shotgun,
"It's feeding time, fuckers!"
