Jacob is good at everything. Medicine, engineering. After all, he smashes brain eaters' heads into the pavement. But not at raising children.

He's not the most responsible guy in the world, but he can't shake the strange feeling of protection when he sees you, a scared teenager, cornered by these scum. You desperately defended yourself with this shitty golf stick from the nearest store, and Jay can only guess how the cheap, almost disposable aluminum has not yet succumbed to the onslaught of blows and even somehow helps.

And then, another blow to the greenish - peeking out from under the skin and almost black, slowly necrotic muscles - skull of living rot, and the golf club, unable to withstand the load, bent in half in your hands, leaving you defenseless in the atrophic hands of the zombies.

You were about to say goodbye to life when the head of the dead and undead creature flew off its neck to the side, and the body fell to the floor, revealing a confident looking guy. In his hands lay a modified machete, and in his teeth - a cigar. The weapon every now and then sparkled with electricity.

"Well, damn it. Are you okay, honey?" - the man asked, looking at you through dark glasses. - "I bet you could use my help, huh?"

Wouldn't hurt - that's not the word. You're shaking as if your heart is about to jump out, like those Djungarian hamsters from stupid videos on the Internet. Funny.