The air in the hospital hallway felt like it was thickening, charged with the scent of copper and decay. Rick leaned heavily on Ken's shoulder, his legs trembling like a newborn colt's. Every breath Rick took was a ragged struggle, a desperate attempt to pull oxygen into a body that had been stagnant for weeks.
"We need to see," Rick wheezed, gesturing toward a set of windows at the end of the corridor. "We need to see what happened."
Ken didn't argue. He knew what was out there, but Rick needed the visual confirmation to snap out of his post-coma haze. He guided the deputy toward the glass. As they reached the window, the sunlight hit them—a harsh, uncaring glare that illuminated the nightmare below.
Rick pressed his forehead against the glass, and a broken sound escaped his throat.
Below them, the hospital grounds were transformed into a mass grave. Hundreds of white body bags were lined up in neat, horrific rows, stretching across the parking lot and onto the grass. Some bags were torn open; others were stained with dark, dried fluids. Beyond the gates, the city of Atlanta—or the outskirts of it—was a ghost town. Plumes of distant smoke rose into a clear blue sky, and the streets were choked with abandoned cars, their doors flung wide like the wings of dead insects.
"God... oh, God," Rick whispered, his knees buckling.
Ken caught him before he hit the floor. "Look at me, Rick. Eyes on me."
The grey-eyed teenager forced the older man to meet his gaze. Ken's voice was no longer the voice of a kid; it was the sharp, clipped tone of a Marine Sergeant giving a briefing.
"The world broke while you were out. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but the 'why' doesn't matter right now. Survival is the only mission. You want to find your family? You want to see your wife and son again? Then you have to get your head in the game. Right now."
The mention of Lori and Carl acted like an electric shock. Rick's eyes cleared, just a fraction. He nodded slowly. "My family... I have to find them."
"Then we prep," Ken said.
…
Ken left Rick sitting against the wall by the window and went to work. His eighteen-year-old body felt light and twitchy, brimming with a nervous energy he hadn't felt in a decade. He moved through the nearby rooms with tactical precision, ignoring the bloodied sheets and the flies.
He found a supply closet that hadn't been picked clean. He grabbed three high-quality nylon backpacks from a storage shelf—likely meant for home-care nurses.
The Pack List:
Medicine: He cleared out the cabinets—antibiotics, ibuprofen, gauze, medical tape, and several bottles of antiseptic. He didn't know much about the "wildfire virus," but he knew infection was a silent killer.Hydration: He found a stash of bottled water in a breakroom and several cans of ginger ale.Calories: There was a vending machine in the lobby. Ken didn't have quarters, but he had a heavy fire extinguisher. Two swings shattered the glass. He stuffed the bags with granola bars, peanut butter crackers, and beef jerky.
He returned to Rick, looking like a pack mule. He had one bag strapped to his chest, the straps pulled tight over his skinny shoulders, and another heavy pack on his back. He handed the third to Rick.
"Drink this," Ken ordered, handing Rick a bottle of water. "Slow sips. Your body is dehydrated. If you vomit, we lose time."
Rick did as he was told, staring at the young man with a mix of awe and confusion. "How do you know all this? You're just a kid."
Ken paused, a shadow crossing his youthful face. "I grew up fast, Rick. Let's leave it at that."
…
The descent down the stairwell was a test of endurance. Rick was weak, his hospital gown fluttering around his thin legs, but Ken kept a steady hand on his elbow. They bypassed the main lobby—Ken could hear the scratching of too many "things" behind the glass—and exited through a side loading dock.
The heat hit them like a physical wall. The silence of the outside world was even more oppressive than the hospital.
As they crossed the grass toward the street, they saw her.
She was lying near a bicycle, her lower half missing. Intestines trailed behind her like a gruesome wedding train, dried and matted with grass and dirt. She sensed their movement and turned. Her skin was a sickly, translucent grey, and her eyes were milky orbs of hunger. She reached out with a clawed hand, her fingernails broken and black, and let out a wet, rattling hiss.
Rick froze. He looked at the creature with a profound, soul-deep pity. "She's... she's still alive."
"No, Rick," Ken said softly. He stepped forward, his clogs crunching on the dry grass. "She's a ghost in a shell. The person she was is long gone."
Ken felt a coldness settle over him. In his previous life, he'd seen things in the desert that haunted his dreams, but this was a different kind of horror. This was a violation of the natural order.
He didn't have a gun, and he didn't want to waste the energy of a struggle. He walked up to the crawling woman. She snapped her teeth at his ankles. Ken didn't flinch. With the practiced balance of a soldier, he shifted his weight to his left leg and brought his right heel down with the full force of his momentum directly onto the walker's temple.
CRACK.
The sound of the skull giving way was like a dry branch snapping. The creature went limp, the light—or the mimicry of it—leaving its eyes.
Ken stepped back, his chest heaving slightly. He looked at his hands. They were trembling, not from fear, but from the rush of the kill. He looked at Rick, who was staring at him in horror.
"It's mercy, Rick," Ken said, his voice hard. "Don't forget that. If we don't end them, they'll never stop being hungry."
…
They walked for what felt like hours. Ken kept them to the shadows, moving from car to car, his grey eyes scanning every rooftop and alleyway. He was teaching Rick how to move without being seen—the basic "low-reg" movement he'd learned in infantry school.
Finally, they reached a quiet suburban street. Rick's pace quickened. "There. That's my house."
The lawn was overgrown, and the house looked hollow, but the structure was intact. Rick stumbled up the porch steps and threw open the door.
"Lori! Carl!"
Ken stayed on the porch, his back to the door, scanning the street. He heard the sounds of Rick's heartbreak from inside—the frantic searching, the realization that the clothes were gone, the photos were missing, and the house was empty.
Rick came back out a few minutes later, collapsing onto the top step. "They're gone. They might be... they might be like that woman."
"Or they left," Ken countered, sitting down next to him. "The house isn't trashed, Rick. It's empty. That means they had time to pack. That's a good sign."
Before Rick could respond, a figure moved at the edge of the street.
A man was walking toward them, staggering. Rick stood up, his vision still blurry. "Hey! Hello!"
"Rick, get back," Ken hissed, reaching for the heavy maglite he'd clipped to his belt.
The man in the street didn't answer. He just kept coming. But before the figure could reach the driveway, a small shadow darted out from behind a car. It was a young boy, maybe twelve years old, carrying a wooden baseball bat.
THWACK.
The boy swung the bat with practiced precision, hitting Rick square in the forehead. Rick grunted and tumbled backward, hitting the porch deck hard.
"Daddy! I got him! I got the dead one!" the boy, Duane, shouted.
A man—Morgan—emerged from behind the car, raising a rifle. He looked panicked, his eyes darting between his son and the two strangers on the porch.
Ken reacted instantly. He didn't draw the flashlight; instead, he threw his hands up, palms out, and stepped in front of the unconscious Rick. He made himself look as non-threatening as a skinny eighteen-year-old could.
"Whoa! Whoa! Easy! Lower the weapon!" Ken shouted, his voice firm but calm.
"Is he bit?" Morgan yelled, his finger twitching on the trigger. "Did he get bit?"
"No!" Ken yelled back. "Look at him! He's wearing bandages from a hospital! He just woke up from a coma. He's not a walker, man. He's a cop."
Morgan hesitated, his eyes dropping to Rick's pristine hospital gown. Duane stood over Rick, the bat raised for another strike.
"Duane, stop!" Ken said, softening his voice. "He's a person, kid. Just like you. He's just hurt."
Ken looked Morgan in the eye. "My name is Ken. This is Rick. We just walked from the hospital. We haven't seen a living soul in miles. Please. We aren't your enemies."
The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Morgan looked at the "walker" his son had been targeting—which was actually just a stray roamer Ken had missed—and then back at the two survivors on the porch. Slowly, very slowly, Morgan lowered the rifle.
"Check his head," Morgan ordered, his voice trembling. "Check for marks."
Ken knelt down, gently turning Rick's head to show the fresh bruise from the bat, but no bite marks. "Clean. I promise you, he's clean."
Morgan sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. "Son, get over here. Help the boy get the man inside. We can't stay out in the open. The 'motto' will be out soon."
Ken exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. He looked at the young boy, Duane, and then at the broken world around them. He had a long way to go, and a lot of people to save, but for the first time since waking up, he felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.