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Blood and saliva dripped and soaked into the muddy dirt road. Vision crackled and glazed with tears. There lay the body of a lonesome cowpoke, dirtied, bloodied, halfway down the stairs to hell. He smelled of cheapened moonshine, vomit, and death, lay right outside the saloon's entrance looking like a raccoon crushed by an automobile and left to rot. broken glass lay around him, sparkling shards caught in his hair and lodged in his hands. Blood dried sticky on his face, dripping from his forehead and mouth, coating his hands and clothes, tangling his hair into rats.
“Ain't you had enough? look at ya, yer scaring the patrons looking like a corpse out here” a rough voice shouted at him, but it sounded like a was mummer behind the ringing.
With a final kick, more of a nudge, to his leg, the man left. The undead rose, pushing his hands into the violent ground, drawing more blood for good measure, and he walked - stumbled. Wandering around town trying to regain consciousness. The stars glimmered brightly, but everything looked dull. No matter how zombified he was, he was still alive. His whole body ached with pain and famine. Something needed to take the edge off, and this time it couldn't be more alcohol or bar fights. Nothing he had tried had killed him yet, so he’ll try again after he lives again.
The young cowpoke wandered the somewhat vacant town of Armadillo, looking for a place to go besides the violently humble saloon. He laid his eyes upon the newer hotel, added about a year or two ago to keep the town alive but already crumbling under the weight of heat. The steps creaked, and his spurs faintly jingled as he entered the building. The clerk looked his decaying body up and down with sharp disdain, a look that screamed for him to leave. With nowhere else to go, he spoke.