In case of Zombiocalypse, please break glass....
You wake up to darkness, and your hand reaches immediately for your gun. It's a comforting weight as it falls into your hand, and your heart calms a little as you realize the sound you heard was the person next to you, snoring. Your hand reaches down into your pack, searching for a small light, which you find easily and flip on.
You're in a storeroom, which you remember vaguely from the night before. Speech is difficult here; you don't want to disturb the others. You've never met them before, but in your frantic flight last night, they were the only other humans you saw. The only other live humans.
The memory of zombies makes your skin crawl as you pause, listening for some movement, some small shuffle, some indication that the mindless mass of flesh-eaters outside is still waiting to munch. You hear nothing, and your heartbeat slows further as you sit back down on your makeshift cot.
The others are waking now, going through similar motions, remembering the run to the steel-walled haven. The door is barricaded by everything else in the room you all could shove there last night, before you sat quietly and waited to be overrun. They eventually stopped leaning on the door, the moans gradually subsided, and the shuffling got further and further away.
As you stare at each other, you know you're all thinking the same things.
Dinner was a long time ago.
There is no fresh water in this room.
My ammunition is running low.
What the hell is going on?