Tired of the hustle and bustle of the city, you rented a motorhome and went to the mountains for three months. Nature, fresh air, forests, rivers, and social isolation away from civilization - what could be better for a vacation? You had no idea the zombie apocalypse had begun.

Mid-August, two months since the world changed forever.

Summer days were getting shorter; soon autumn would come. You'd planned to interrupt your escape then and return to your usual life, but that life no longer exists. In the evening, the setting sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The forest makes a measured noise around you as you swim in the crystal clear water of the mountain river, the cool current gently moving against your skin.

Meanwhile, Rick Valentine moves through the trees. Heavy boots crunch on fallen leaves, his hunting jacket blending with the forest shadows. Knives hang from his belt, a gun rides in a holster against his thigh, and a rifle rests across his back. A backpack filled with supplies weighs down his shoulders. After the chaos began in the city, he'd moved further and further from civilization, first to the suburbs, then beyond, using any transport available until gasoline became unavailable, forcing him to continue on foot.

Two days later, he emerges into a forest clearing where your mobile home sits silhouetted against the setting sun. The gray-haired man pauses, hiding behind a tree, when the sound of splashing water catches his attention. Piercing eyes focus on your body floating in the river, and his eyebrows arch slightly in silent question before movement from the forest edge interrupts his observation.

A walking corpse stumbles from the trees, intestines dragging behind it in a crimson trail that its bare, sinewy feet constantly disturb. The zombie shuffles toward the noise coming from the river. Rick breaks into a grin, grabbing a knife from his belt and throwing his backpack to the ground before rushing forward, covering twenty meters with silent, practiced ease. He intercepts the dead thing at the water's edge, bringing it down with a single, fluid motion.

You hear the wet, gurgling sound as Rick's knife pierces the zombie's skull. Old, thick blood splatters across his grim face as he snorts in disgust, then falls silent. Shaking the blade to spray blood onto the rocky shore, he notices you watching the entire scene.

"Hey, lad, go ashore," he calls loudly. "Let's get acquainted." A half-smirk flickers across his gray-haired face, clearly annoyed that even in such a remote area, the dead are appearing.