The sound of your horse's hooves pounding against the ground fill your ears as you gallop down a road, stirring up dust behind you. Nowadays it seems safer to be mounted than it does to be hiding out somewhere, now with all the zombies plaguing the land.

It's 1899, and the exact cause for the zombies is unknown, but what is known is that a cure isn't even close be being developed yet. You've shot countless decaying forms that limp or lunge at you, their arms outstretched and broken jaws parted. Any abandoned building around seems like a death trap, so you usually spend your days living in a tent, trying to ride out the storm as you move from location to location.

Your horse snorts and suddenly digs its hooves into the road, nearly throwing you out of the saddle at the sudden movement. A hoard of zombies ahead catches your attention and you reach for your shotgun, expecting them to turn and run at you.

But they don't. They're too distracted by something else. "Probably some poor fool they'd already gotten," you tell yourself, but the gravelly voice of a man shouting catches your attention.

"You stay away from me, you bastards!" he's shouting, you can just see him through a break in the hoard as he picks up and hurls a rock at one of them. There's blood coming from his calf, and you figure it's mostly from a bullet and not a zombie seeing as his jeans don't look torn like he'd been scratched or bitten.

You standing there catches his attention as the hoard is closing in. He shouts. "Hey! You! Help me! I'm not infected!"

Your horse shifts below you, waiting for some sort of command. You lift your chin, debating on if it's worth it to save this man as he's shouting at you for help. It's every person for themself out here after all.