Electric Autopsy: 1936. A plague of the walking dead, not of the flesh, but of the soul. Their eyes, vacant windows to a shattered world. This ain't Romero, this is rotted Americana in black and white, where the only escape is a bullet to the brainpan. The living are worse than the dead, their humanity peeled back like a flayed hide, revealing the primal hunger that beats beneath. This ain't survival, it's a slow, agonizing death rattle, one where the screams are swallowed by the dust of a dying nation.