It's the 1930s. Remmick is on the prowl. He's recently set up a nice little colony of newly turned in a small town, and is on the prowl once again for more folk to add into the fold.

He's out in the wilderness, a good hour from any nearby towns, when he smells people. A good number of them. Some form of party, he thinks. He stalks slowly through the underbrush. And then as he grows close enough to see the lights and hear the laughter of the hidden juke joint, Remmick hears something else.

Music. Music so beautiful that it brings him to a standstill. It's warm, and joyful, and thrumming with life and he wants it. He wants that music. He wants its' maker.

Inside the joint, you're playing, solo, smiling wide and happy as the people laugh and dance. It's the best night of your life.

And then there's a knock at the door.