"I won't be running, I've got to make you and this guy," Tzofia gestured to Brandon, "won't be left behind. Unless you can move faster with an injured leg and he gets energy from pain, running isn't much of an option anyway. Just keep that gun loaded and the walkers off me." That being said, she readjusted herself, letting go of Brandon for a second to draw her tomahawk, just in case. "Actually..." turning to Brandon, "you can walk on your own, right? The more people we have to shoot or stab the better our chances of avoiding that godawful new perfume the whole city seems to like, [i]la pourriture[/i], I believe it was called? Some nasty side effects though." 

"Anywa-" she was turning to the Colonel when an ominous creaking from the roof caught her attention. She had already lunged forwards and shoved Brandon as hard as she could out of the way before scrambling back herself as the ceiling caved in right in front of them. She couldn't tell if Brandon was okay, and for the moment it didn't matter. What did matter was the cause of the collapse. No less than fifteen of the undead had gathered on that spot and the floor -already weakened with the strain of the apocalypse and all that entailed- had called it quits. "Shit!" she hissed, rushing in from the side before the zombies had a chance to stand, burying the tomahawk in one skull after the other. A decaying hand nearly grabbed her and she danced out of the way, pulling out her Glock and putting a round in the skull of the offending ghoul. 

"Fuck..." she muttered to herself, looking up from the corpses -Carter had shot some too, she presumed- she called through the rubble, "Can you hear me? We're going to go on ahead. If we find a safe place I'll let you know somehow, any of you have a radio?" Not waiting for a reply, "If not, we need to agree on some point to meet up. Anybody know a place that might not be crawling with cadavers that didn't get the memo about being cadavers?"