With a pang of horror and sadness, you realized there was nothing you could do for the man. You hadn't practiced much with your pistol, and it only held six rounds. As the zombie lurching your way drew close enough for you to smell its' rotten breath, you fired two panicked shots at it, then turned down the right side of the alley and ran, not bothering to see if you had killed it or not.
You immediately found yourself cursing your choice of footwear. Flip-flops were a poor choice for running in, and they were slowing you down. A few seconds later, you stumbled over one as it caught on something, sending you tumbling into a pile of garbage. As you rolled over and staggered to your feet, you risked a glance behind you. The zombie you had shot at was doggedly pursuing you, and was all of about thirty feet away. Worse, the other two zombies had finished with the man, and were coming your way, as well.
As a faint squeal of panic left your lips, you pointed your pistol at the closest zombie and fired the last four rounds in your magazine at it. Two of them missed completely, another hit it in the arm, and the last hit it in the chest. To your horror, the zombie only staggered a bit at the two small rounds hitting it, but was otherwise unaffected, continuing its' steady shambling march toward you.
With a full-fledged shriek of terror, you kicked off the damned flip-flops, and sprinted barefoot up the alleyway, barely noticing how the rough concrete bit into your bare soles, nor the filth you were running through.
Ahead of you, you could see a couple of doors that opened into the alleyway, and past them, where it crossed another street. Maybe one of the doors would be unlocked, and you could take refuge in a building. Ahead of you, you could hear sirens wailing as police and EMS teams responded to the growing crisis, and the muffled pops of more gunfire. Maybe the police could help you, though that would lead away from your apartment.