"Start! Starrrrrrrt!" said Connie, frantically turning the key in her battered station wagon as her 7-year-old daughter clutched tightly at her. But it was of no use. The wagon's 25-year-old engine had been knocked out of alignment, and no amount of turning the key or screaming would get it to work.
A hail of zombie fists, heads, feet, and mouths pounded at the wagon's body panels and windows. A fit young man, perhaps about 20 years old, who looked to be only recently zombified repeatedly head-butted the window on Dakota's side. Two middle-aged women zombies, with pale grey skin and bloodstains all over their clothes, were visible through the windshield, pounding on the driver's front fender. A man who appeared to be in his 40s, his suit falling apart on his decaying body, was punching the rear right seat window as hard as he could muster. Dakota was now seeing everything, and in the back of her mind Connie still worried Dakota would be traumatized.
Connie had one final moment of lucidity. "I love you, sweetie." Both waited to hear that window shatter. They didn't know how many seconds they had left to live, but they knew it wasn't many. The zombies were putting deep dents in the steel body of the car. The sound of the hits was only getting louder. The punches were getting harder. Connie and Dakota hugged over the middle of the car, putting their backs to the outside and trying to look at each other rather than the hideous zombies. Connie saw another zombie – this time, a muscular man of about 25 whose body still looked relatively intact – punch the passenger window as hard as he could. The window shook in its frame, but the tempered safety glass somehow held. The zombie punched again.
Pop.