He’s running and crying. He’s fallen down two, three times already, and has skinned his knees and one of his palms. That’s only made it easier for zombies to smell him, but he’s too out of his mind on fear and adrenaline to realize that.
Everywhere he goes, there are more of them. He stops to rest only to be frightened into running again by a clammy hand on his shoulder or a nearby moan. His feet and his chest are on fire.
There are people in some of these houses, he knows. But no one will let him in.