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The year is 1911, and something has gone horribly wrong. The world has been hit by a plague of apocalyptic proportions. The dead have risen and wander the land in search of human flesh. Frequent storms batter the Earth and all plant life has seemingly died off. Cattle meat became rotten and those who dared to eat it joined the undead ranks. Initial survivors told stories of mythical creatures who stalk the wilderness, but not many had the courage to go and verify the tales. Those who did never returned. Small pockets of civilization sprung up all over the land after the major towns were decimated by the ravenous zombies, but they don't have nearly enough supplies to cope with the massive amounts of people begging for help.

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Simon rode his horse along the dirt path, keeping a vigilante eye out for any of the flesh-eating freaks that might be nearby. As he passed a corpse that had a gunshot wound to the head, he cast a thought back to when the whole thing had actually started. He'd been hiding off the track with the rest of his gang after committing a caravan robbery. As the night drew closer, one of the gang began to complain of a severe headache and went to lie down. Several hours later, he awoke. But not as himself. He began biting and scratching at the other bandits, turning them into the undead. Simon had to put down a couple before fleeing the camp on his horse and riding as hard as he could, putting as much distance between them and him.

It was when he rode through Armadillo, that he realised the epidemic wasn't restricted to just his group. Everybody was turning into one of the things. Friends were eating each other, with no recollection of their previous life. The law enforcement officers were swiftly overrun and devoured, leaving nobody to defend the hapless civilians that ran in every direction, screaming in terror. Simon was nearly killed in Armadillo, when a survivor who had gone crazy, probably from watching everyone he loved and cared about die at the hands of the undead, starting opening fire on everyone and everything he saw, not discriminating between alive and dead.

Simon was on his way to Thieves' Landing, his home before he ran away when he was young, expecting it to be somewhat safe, although he didn't know what he based his idea off of. He'd heard stories of supposed safe zones, but didn't believe them since everything was just so messed up. He just brushed them off as stories told by people who had seen too much and gone a bit loopy. Simon cast his glance into a field on his left, spotting a single undead male, shuffling around aimlessly. Wandering. Waiting for his next meal. Not knowing when it'd be. To be honest, Simon didn't know when his next meal would be either.