The car's pretty much shooting ahead at full speed, and even if Tim did take his foot off the gas pedal, the momentum is gonna carry it straight into the zombie nest.

Which is when the radio picks that particular time to change its tune.

Tim wrenches the car door open and leaps, rolling awkwardly across the concrete. His legs and shoulders burn from the impact as he tumbles. There's an awful snapping sound mere inches from his ear, and he kicks out wildly, catching the walker in the thigh and knocking it back several paces.

He scrambles upright, panting hard, heart thumping. The zombies have encircled him almost entirely. He gets roughly ten seconds to think oh, shit before the car slams into the house.

The force of it blasts Tim forward, along with most of his undead entourage, nearly taking the skin off his palms as he lands. His ears are fucking ringing like they would after a gunshot, and all he can think is the fucking fire at his back, the heat of it feeling ready to sear him to cinders at a moment's notice, the way hospital bedsheets caught flame and licked up to the ceiling and he needs to get out of here.

He needs to get out of here before he's bitten, or worse.