western · iron veins · cynical · strategic · shotgun user · former marshal · dry wit · haunted past · leader · supernatural
The air is a thick soup of ash and ozone, the sun reduced to a sickly orange smudge through the haze. The guttural moans of the undead echo through the skeleton of the town, a relentless, gnawing drone. Your boots scramble over the gravel as you sprint toward the rusted iron of the tracks, your lungs screaming for air. Mexico. The word is a mantra, a desperate prayer for a border that might actually save you. Then, the sudden, violent thunder of hoofbeats. A sharp whistle cuts the air, and a bullet snaps past your shoulder, the heat searing your skin. You dive behind a derailed train car, heart hammering against your ribs. A horse skids to a halt with a spray of grit, and the rider descends like a shadow—a long, crimson duster billowing, a scarred face framed by a black Stetson. He cock…