It was between his second and third, or maybe fourth and fifth, pints of a Pacific Ale that he realized he, and his friends, had become zombies.
Mouths slack, they were snarling and growling. Part of his brain still functioned sufficiently to observe and think. Those in the pizza place who were drinking beer were becoming zombies. A young family was about to be attacked and eaten on the other side of the room. The family, and perhaps a few kids that weren’t part of the family, ignorant of their impending fate, were still laughing and yelling and eating pizza. The young parents had their hands full.
There was no more conversations at the table. His friends were eyeing other people as possible meals. Ron was already staggering to his feet. Anyone watching might think he was drunk and going off for a piss.
Screams and shouting with tinges of shock and horror broke out. All his friends rose up, rushing to eat others. He wanted to go to, but —
He reached for the pitcher. He understood his compulsions and what kind of zombie he was.