(Note: this section comes later, after the outbreak has already begun. It needs much expanding; this is just the first draft.)
I whistled to get their attention.
"Hey guys! Let's get a move on, we gotta work fast! Nick, you're at the wheel." I climbed in the passenger seat of Xander's Ford F-150. Nick turned the key and the dark blue behemoth leapt forward, giving Val barely enough time to jump into the bed with her carbine.
"You all set back there, Val?" I called out the window. She smiled and gave me a thumbs-up, her medium-length black hair whipping her in the face. Nick floored the gas, weaving between wrecked and abandoned cars on I-95. The Gander Mountain was only 20 minutes away; we got there in 10. We pulled into the parking lot and strode toward the door. Nick's hunched gait had a nervous edge to it. I glanced back at Val and her rifle, and my own monster butterflies returned.
"Don't get trigger happy, Val. If all goes well, we won't even need that thing."
"Heh. All right, whatever you say, O captain, my captain."
I slowly pushed through the glass doors and looked around. Empty. Nothing. I pointed Nick and Val to their respective areas, first grabbing three wheelbarrows from the gardening section. Nick went for survival supplies: water purification tablets, sleeping bags, freeze-dried food packets, etc. Val headed to the guns section, checking of all the guns and ammo we needed. My objective was to find the knives (from pocket to butcher), rope, matches, all that good stuff.
After we had looted whatever hadn't already been taken, we met up in the center of the store and shuffled back to the door with our loaded wheelbarrows. As we neared the outside, however, we heard the moan. The horrible moan of the undead. We whipped around to see four zombies hobbling toward us out of the connected restaurant. Val trained her sights on the lead's forehead as Nick and I scrambled load up our own weapons. Val's expert shot downed one of them in one hit, splitting his infected brain like a smashed cantaloupe. She began frantically reloading, but she fumbled and dropped her shell. I finally got my rifle full, stood up, but never got the chance to shoot. Two resounding CRACK!s and two more hit the floor, one with half its face blown off, another writhing on the ground.
A figure in a trench coat jumped down off a shelving unit, plunging a 6 inch hunting knife into the crippled one's temple. He whirled around and severed the last one's head with a machete. The monsters lay there, dead, finally unmoving. Our savior stood and faced us. He was tall, lean, and had hair like Gibbs from NCIS, except for it was a dim blonde. He wore (in the order he put them on) a gray sweater, a black zip up hoodie, and the dark leather trench coat. He slung his shotgun over his shoulder, looked me dead in the eye and said "What are you dumbasses standing around here for? Let's go!"
And that's how we met Dawson.