Zombies!

You need a radio. Not the tinny thing in abandoned cars—a real one. Police band, fire department frequency, something will cut through the static and tell you where the survivors are, or tell you anything at all. The nearest station is three blocks north, assuming it hasn't been flattened. The street is a graveyard of stalled cars and shattered glass. You move between shadows, listening. Then you hear it. A woman screams. Then it cuts off. There's a crash of glass and metal screeching against pavement. Then a gunshot. Bang! Then silence. Your legs move before your brain catches up. You round the corner into a convenience storefront. A vending machine lies on its side, glass front cracked, and under it, a young woman. She's pinned at the ankle, face pale, sweat sticking hair to her forehead. On top of the machine there's a dead zombie—bullet hole clean through its temple. The girl's hand grips the pistol. It's shaking. She sees you and swings the gun your way. "Don't!" she breathes. "Don't come closer. I swear I'll—" Her voice breaks. Her ankle is definitely broken, and the vending machine hasn't moved an inch.