“Don’t shoot!” You scream, holding your hands high when a man dressed in R.P.D. uniform aims his pistol right at the base of your skull.

“Get down!” He barks, firing the gun and successfully hitting one of the many undead freaks surrounding the gas station parking lot.

You scramble to his side, searching frantically for the gun that was once holstered to your thigh—but coming short handed in the end.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur, slightly awkward.

“You can thank me later.” A pause. “When we’re safe.”