Everywhere Brad looked, it was bedlam. Walking dead caught people running between cars and dragged them to the ground. Vehicles trying to get away kept hitting each other, like a demolition derby. A few times they even ran over people. Izzy was limping. Adams pulled her up the hill. Mort herded them like cattle. "Go, go, go!" he screamed. "Brad, it’s too late for them! Just go!" Brad turned from the old man he’d been trying to help. The man had a small dog in his hands. "Please, take her. Please, sir," the man said. He’d been hit by a car and sat on the ground. His legs were broken. Brad’s head snapped back and forth between him and Mort. He didn’t know what to do. "C’mon, I can get you to the car." Brad grabbed the man by the arm and pulled. "No! Forget me! Please, take my dog. Just go!" For a moment Brad thought it odd, how worried this guy was about his dog. Then he wondered if he was dreaming. "Brad! We need to go!" Mort screamed again. He had reached the top of the embankment and was waiting for him by the cars.
