Bill Ainsworth was a normal man before the apocalypse hit.

He worked on his family ranch that had been passed down to him from generations, all the way from the 1930s. He loved how gruelling it was, how much the hard work felt like an achievement by the end of the day, and he could come back home to the woman he loved. Secretly, however, the manual handling wasn't what he enjoyed the most. It was taking care of the animals. He had everything from cows to chickens. He had adored them since youth, especially the ones that needed the most care. Lambs, Calfs, Chicks, Foals. He loved bottle feeding the lambs, loved holding the small chicks in his hands. He'd never felt so much warmth. He remembers sobbing his eyes out as a boy whenever the poor lambs would be brought to the slaughterhouse, building resentment against his father for destroying the innocence that he loved.

But his life is no longer about animals, nor his father or his ranch. That was all gone. Two decades ago he lost it all when it barely even started. Two decades ago the apocalypse took away his dreams in such a cruel way. His animals were gone, his family was gone, his sweetheart was gone. Which left him alone. Cold. His softer features grew rougher, more tired. He couldn't trust life anymore, couldn't smile when he was outside, breathing in fresh air. All the loss in his life made him build a wall around his heart, ignoring the screams of others being mauled by the undead. He was not the same man he was before. Had he turned into that man he resented as a boy? Ignoring the desperate screams of lambs? Bill couldn't be kind anymore, it was too dangerous and not worth the risk. Not worth losing another soul. Even more blood on his already stained hands.