It's been one months, two weeks, and two days.  Power went after two days.  You're really, really, really about to lose it.  You're low on food and lower on morale. 
There's a Duane Reade drugstore four blocks down and one avenue over. If you go slowly, move carefully, and watch your ass, you just might make it.  But what you'll find there, you have no idea.  Could be ransacked, empty, useless.  Could be locked.  Could be full of zombies.  You don't know.  But you can't wait any longer – soon you'll be too weak to even attempt it.
You find a crowbar in a neighbor's apartment.  It's the best weapon around. 
Duane Reade it is.
The sun sets.  You go over your plan one last time – down the fire escape, slowly through the playground, then the three last blocks to Duane Reade.  Once you get there, you'll wing it – no way to plan for what you'll find there. 
You slip the crowbar into your belt and slowly make your way down the fire escape.  As gently as possible, you lower the ladder.  Still, it makes a hell of a racket.  You stay there on the fire escape for a good ten minutes, making sure none of the beasts come to check out the noise.
They don't.
You sneak through the playground, keeping your distance from the monsters that now inhabit it.  Soon, you're past and out. 
The city is spookily quiet.  You hear the occasional zombie moan, but little else.  You creep down the side streets, hugging the walls.
You're close.  You hop a fence, sneak down an alley, and you're directly across from Duane Reade.
And it was all for nothing…
Moans echo from inside the store.  In the moonlight, you catch flashes of them, eerie and white.  Can't tell how many, but the store looks packed. 
You crouch down behind two overturned trashcans and watch.  The bastards 'aint going anywhere, that's for sure.  Hopeless.
Dejected, you turn to head back up over the fence, then stop dead in your tracks.
A low mechanical rumble.  Then louder.  Heavy machinery?  Construction crew?  Helicopter?
Motorcycles.  Heavy metal thunder. 
No, not just motorcycles - Harleys. A dozen headlights pierce through the darkness.
The bikes blaze past you.  On all but one of the bikes, there's a passenger on the back brandishing a weapon.  The leader rides alone. 
One passenger carries a huge wrench – has to be a foot-and-a-half long.  The bike buzzes by a female zombie in a wedding dress.  The man with the wrench swings as they pass, taking her down.  She doesn't get back up.  The combination of bike speed and the weight of the wrench shatters the skull and destroys the brain in one blow.
After the first drive-by, five, six of the beasts lie dead on the ground as the bikes speed away.  The roar fades as they disappear down the avenue.  But no – then it grows louder.  The crisscrossing headlights cut through the night again.
They fly past.  The driver closest to you has a huge blade mounted on his arm.  Fist closed, he slashes out.  Decapitates an undead man.  The pack speeds away.  Six, maybe seven more zombies laid out on the street.
Then, again, they swing back around.  But this time not for a fly-by.  The bikes come to a halt. Kick stands drop.
The bikers go to work.  Chains, bats, machetes, pipes, 2x4s.  One particularly large biker wields a piece of pipe buried in a hunk of cement.  In less than a minute, every zombie in a one-block radius is dead.
You inch closer, trying to hear.
"Alright, you four, hold the perimeter!" one shouts.  He's the leader.  Four men sprint off, each to one corner of the street.  You read the stitching on the back of his leather jacket.
HELLS ANGELS.
"Tommy, you're up," the leader says.
Tommy is aptly named.  He steps off his bike and whips a Tommy Gun from a chain strap around his back.
One Angel turns his bike so the headlight shines on the Duane Reade.  You can see the beasts clearly now - ghastly, gruesome, decomposing things. They've made it to the front of the store and they're coming through the shattered windows and the broken door. 
Tommy lets loose.  In the movies you always see people shooting Tommy Guns from their hips, spraying widely.
But not Tommy.  Military stance.  Legs spread.  Sights up.  One eye shut.  Perfect form.
Three shots.  Dead.
Three shots.  Another dead.
Three shots.  Another.  Another.  Another.
He takes out every single one of them – has to be twenty.  And not one of the beasts gets close.
The leader slaps Tommy on the back, says something that sounds like "nice shooting," then shouts to the group, "Do it!"
The four men keep the perimeter while everyone else loots the store.  In less than a minute they've wiped the store clean.  A few of the bikes have sidecars - they throw their loot inside.
Damn.  These guys are good.  If you want to survive in this zombie-infested city, hooking up with them just might be your best bet.
But they could also just as easily shoot you and leave you dead in the street.
Ahh, fuck it. 
You grab your crowbar and walk out into the street, hands up.
"Hey, uh, hey fellas," you say.
They all turn.
"The fuck?" one says.
"Hi."
"What do we got here?"
"Um.  Well I'd like to come with you guys."
A chorus of laughter. 
"No for real."
"Fellas, mount up," the leader says.  They do. 
He walks over to you.  "Kid, go home."
He's two feet from you.  You can see him clearly now.  Head shaved bald.  Thick beard.  Tats running up his neck.
"Look," you say, "I don't need to be a real, like, official Angel.  I just – I mean, I've been stuck in some old lady's apartment for months. The world seems to have ended. I'm not going to make it much longer.  I need food.  Shit, I need to have a goddamn conversation with someone."
The leader stares at you.  You can see the wheels turning.  Then he pulls out a huge revolver from a holster by his side.  Dirty Harry type shit. 
"Whoa," you say, putting your hands up and stepping back.
"Relax kid, I wouldn't a waste a slug on you – even if I did want you dead."
"Thanks for that."
"Limpy, get over here!" he shouts, not taking his eyes off you.
"Limpy?" you ask.
"That's right.  I'm Jones."
"As in Indiana?"
"As in Jones."
"OK."
Limpy hobbles over.
"Now kid," Jones continues, "normally, I'd tell you to take a hike and that'd be that.  But, you're lucky.  Well – depending on if you're a half full or a half empty kinda guy."
He points the gun at you, then points it at the thin, gangly guy limping his way over.  Does this guy really need to use his .357 Magnum like it's a goddamn laser pointer?
"That's Limpy."
You nod.
"Limpy's got a real, real serious gambling problem.  Real fucking degenerate. Helluva pal, though.  He liked the ponies.
"I loved the ponies," Limpy says.
"Limpy," Jones says, "I got an idea."
"Shit yeah."
You don't like where this is going.
"Kid, here's the deal.  Take it or leave it. You go stand in the middle of that intersection there," Jones says, waving the gun across the way.  "You stay there for five minutes – you live – and I'll let you come stay at the club.  Limpy, you think he's gonna live?
Limpy smiles.  "Hell no."
"OK," Jones says, "I'll take the odds.  Limpy thinks you die.  I say you surprise us and live.  You live, you got a place to stay.  You die, you die.  You understand?"
You swallow.  "I understand."
"So, what's it gonna be, kid?"
---
What the hell - go for it.  Show these guys what you're made of.  Nothing to lose, right? 

Hell no!  You're not dying on some street corner just 'cause some biker asked you to.