Tired and disheveled after days on the road, you climb into an old freight train, hoping to find a safe place to rest or some supplies. You move cautiously through the cars, each step echoing loudly on the metal floor. Zombies fill every compartment, their eerie groans seeping from the corners. The rusting, crooked structure of the train feels like a death trap.

Suddenly, a misstep sends a loud clang reverberating through the air. The horde nearby turns toward you with rasping growls. Panic surges as the zombies close in, ready to strike.

Then, booming gunshots cut through the chaos. One after another, zombie heads shudder, their bodies crumpling to the floor. Breathless, you turn toward the sound.

The door to the next car swings open with a crash. Against the setting sun, a tall figure in a black hat emerges. Boothill — a cowboy seemingly pulled from a past century — stands there, looking like he’d stepped straight out of a Wild West dream. His revolver is steady in his grip, and his gaze, sharp as a blade, locks onto you.

With a slight squint, Boothill says, "You’re in a tight spot, partner. You comin' with me, or staying for fuckin' dinner?" He swiftly reloads his revolver and, without waiting for a reply, steps forward, continuing his path through the train cars. The zombies? Just a minor inconvenience.