Lucien settled into a routine at Harrison Memorial that was, by apocalypse standards, almost normal.
Days started early. Gale would find him in his room around dawn, knock twice, and say, "You're with me today." He'd grab his backpack and follow her on rounds.
The hospital had maybe a dozen patients left. Most were in comas like Rick, kept alive by machines. A few were conscious but too injured or sick to leave. One elderly woman with a broken hip. A man who'd been in a car accident and lost most of his left leg. A teenager who'd been bitten by a dog and the wound had gone septic.
Gale moved through the rooms, checking vitals, changing bandages, adjusting IV drips. And she talked while she worked, explaining everything she did.
"See this?" She gestured at the teenager's infected leg. "Cellulitis. The red streaking? That's the infection spreading through the lymphatic system. If we don't get it under control, it'll go septic. Then he's dead."
She handed Lucien a scalpel. "Debridement. You need to cut away the dead tissue before it spreads. Hold it like this, firm grip, but not too tight. You're not trying to stab him, you're trying to be precise."
Lucien took the scalpel. His hand didn't shake. He'd killed a walker with a crowbar, after all. Cutting away infected flesh should've been nothing. Except it wasn't nothing. The walker had been dead already. This was a living person, conscious and in pain, trusting him not to make it worse.
"Go on," Gale said. "He's had morphine. He won't feel it."
The teenager's eyes were glassy. Lucien positioned the blade and made the first cut. The infected tissue came away easily.
"Good. Now the next section. Don't leave any behind, or it'll just keep spreading."
He worked steadily, cutting and cleaning while Gale watched and corrected his technique. By the time he finished, his hands were covered in blood and pus, and his shirt was sticking to his back with sweat.
"Not bad," Gale said, which from her was practically a standing ovation. "You've got steady hands. That's half the battle."
She taught him suturing next. She showed him how to tie surgical knots and how to space the stitches evenly, explaining how much tension to use so the wound would close without tearing. After that, she moved on to splinting broken bones and administering injections. She made sure he could recognize the signs of shock, dehydration, and internal bleeding.
Every night, his head was swimming with medical terminology and procedures. But he absorbed it all like a sponge, partly because he was an adult in a kid's body, and partly because this knowledge might keep him alive.
It confirmed what he already suspected about the way it affected his magic.
He'd been struggling with Episkey for a while. The spell was supposed to heal minor to moderate injuries, cuts, bruises, broken bones if you were skilled enough. But every time he tried it, the magic fizzled out or went haywire, making the injury worse instead of better.
Then Gale showed him a detailed anatomy chart, pointing out muscle groups, blood vessels, nerve clusters. And something clicked.
Magic needed intent. That's what every book said. But intent wasn't just wanting something to happen. It was understanding what needed to happen. When he cast Episkey now, he could visualize the torn tissue knitting back together, the blood vessels reconnecting, and the bone fragments aligning.
He still couldn't cast it successfully, but he was close. He could feel the magic responding, trying to do what he wanted. All he needed was a little push through whatever mental block was holding him back.
His other spells were improving too. The Levitation Charm was second nature now, and he'd managed to cast it nonverbally a few times. It drained his magic faster, probably twice as much as saying the incantation aloud, but in a fight, shaving off even half a second could be the difference between life and death.
Transfiguration, though? Still hopeless. He could turn a steel bar into a needle, barely, and even that reverted back after a few minutes. Comparing himself to Ron Weasley was generous. He was more like Neville Longbottom's less talented cousin.
Which was embarrassing, considering he'd watched Professor McGonagall turn a desk into a pig like it was nothing. And the thought of Animagi, wizards who could transform into animals at will, made him want to bang his head against a wall.
But he was eleven, self-taught, and living in a zombie apocalypse. By those standards, he was doing fine.
He decided to stop beating himself up about it.
---
Paul was a talker.
The man could not shut up. Every story he told involved him doing something either incredibly badass or incredibly stupid. He'd been military, Army, not Marines, he was quick to clarify, and had done two tours in Afghanistan before getting out and drifting through a series of security jobs.
"Private sector pays better," he'd said, lying on his cot with his hands behind his head. "No IEDs either, which is a nice perk."
Lucien had been helping Karina organize their supplies when he'd asked, as casually as he could manage, "Paul, could you teach me how to fight?"
Paul had looked at him like he'd asked to borrow a loaded gun.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're a kid." Paul's tone left no room for argument. "Kids shouldn't be learning how to kill people."
"I've already killed a walker."
"That's different."
"Is it?" Lucien pressed. "They're both about not dying. And I'm alone out here. If I can't protect myself, I'm dead. You know that."
Paul's expression had wavered. He glanced at Karina, who just shrugged.
"He's got a point," she said. "It's not like he's got parents to protect him."
Paul had sighed. "Fine. But we're starting with basics. And if I think you're gonna hurt yourself, we stop. Deal?"
"Deal."
The training started simple. It focused on fundamentals like proper stance, maintaining balance, and throwing a punch without breaking your own hand.
"People think fighting is all about hitting hard," Paul said, demonstrating a proper stance. "It's not. It's about hitting smart. You're small, so you're not gonna overpower anyone. You need to be fast, and you need to go for weak points."
He pointed at his own body as he talked. "Eyes. Throat. Groin. Knees. These are soft targets. You hit them hard enough, even a big guy goes down."
They practiced on a rolled-up sleeping bag Paul had hung from a pipe in one of the storage rooms. Lucien threw punches until his knuckles were raw and his shoulders burned.
"Don't just use your arm," Paul corrected, repositioning him. "Rotate your hips. Put your body weight into it. There, like that. Better."
He taught Lucien knife work too. "You're not trying to stab someone a bunch of times like in the movies. One good cut to the femoral artery, and they're bleeding out in under a minute."
And guns. Paul did not let him fire anything, since it was too likely to attract walkers, but he did show him how to check whether a weapon was loaded, how to clear a jam, and how to aim properly.
"Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it. And keep both eyes open. You need depth perception."
By the end of each session, Lucien was exhausted.
---
Karina's lessons were different.
She'd pull him outside into the hospital's overgrown courtyard and point at plants like she was giving a nature documentary.
"This is plantain. Not the banana thing, the weed. You can eat the young leaves raw, or boil them if you've got fire. And if you mash them up, they make a decent poultice for cuts and stings."
She showed him how to identify poison ivy and how to follow animal tracks to find clean water. She also taught him how to build a basic snare trap using wire and sticks.
"You're not gonna catch much in the city," she admitted. "But if you end up in the woods, knowing this stuff could save your life."
One afternoon, she taught him how to make a water filter using sand, charcoal, and a plastic bottle. It was crude, but it worked. Lucien watched the murky water from a puddle slowly clear as it dripped through the layers.
"Charcoal absorbs impurities," Karina explained. "Sand catches the big stuff. It's not perfect, you'd still want to boil it if you can, but in a pinch, it'll keep you from dying of dysentery."
Lucien filed it all away. Most of it wasn't immediately useful, he wasn't planning to forage for food in the hospital parking lot, but it was the kind of knowledge that might matter later.
And there was something else. Karina had mentioned plants with medicinal properties. Herbs that could reduce fever, stop bleeding, fight infection.
His mind kept drifting back to the Potions textbook in his trunk. He didn't have a cauldron or any of the magical ingredients the book called for. But what if he could substitute them? What if there were plants in this world that had similar properties to dittany or wormwood?
It was a long shot. But it was something to think about.
---
Two days after settling in, Lucien made his move.
He found Gale in one of the supply rooms, counting antibiotics and muttering under her breath about inventory. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to look casual.
"Dr. Gale?"
"Hmm?" She didn't look up from her clipboard.
"I heard Shane mention his partner. He said he's here in the hospital. Is that true?"
That got her attention. She glanced at him. "Why do you want to know?"
Lucien shrugged, going for innocent curiosity. "Shane saved my life. I just thought... if his partner's here, maybe I could check on him. And let Shane know he's okay, if I ever see him again."
It was plausible. And it played into the image he'd been building, helpful kid, grateful to the people who'd protected him.
Gale studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Yeah. Rick's here. He's been in a coma since before the outbreak."
"Can I see him?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "Come on."
She led him through the hospital's winding corridors to a private room. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, the only sound was the steady beep of a heart monitor.
Rick Grimes lay on the bed, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest. Tubes ran from his arms to IV bags hanging on a stand. His face was pale, his hair curling slightly against the pillow.
This was the man who'd lead a group of survivors through hell. The man who'd make impossible decisions and somehow keep most of his people alive.
And right now, he was just a guy in a coma, completely unaware of the world ending around him.
"He's stable," Gale said quietly. "I've been keeping him alive, but... I don't know if he'll ever wake up."
Lucien stepped closer to the bed. He could feel Gale watching him, probably expecting some kind of emotional reaction.
"He's lucky, though," Lucien said.
Gale frowned. "Lucky?"
"Yeah." Lucien kept his voice soft. "He missed the worst of it. He slept through all of that."
He paused, then added, "And he's still alive. That means he's strong. He'll wake up eventually. I'm sure of it."
It was a gamble, saying that. But Gale's expression softened, just slightly, and Lucien knew he'd played it right.
"Maybe you're right," she said. "I hope you are."
They stood there for another moment, then Gale ushered him out. "Come on. We've got work to do."
As they left, Lucien glanced back at Rick one last time.
Wake up soon, he thought. I need you to start the story.
---
A week passed.
Paul's injuries healed completely, and he and Karina started talking about moving on. They wanted to find other survivors, maybe a larger group with better resources.
On their last day, Paul pulled Lucien aside.
"We're heading out tomorrow," he said. "You should come with us."
Lucien shook his head. "I can't. I need to stay here."
"Why? There's nothing for you here, kid."
"There's Rick," Lucien said. "I told Shane I'd look after him. I can't just leave."
Paul looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. He just clapped Lucien on the shoulder and said, "You're a good kid. Take care of yourself, alright?"
"You too."
The next morning, Lucien stood on the hospital steps and watched Paul and Karina load their supplies into a battered SUV. They waved as they pulled out of the parking lot, and Lucien waved back until the vehicle disappeared around a corner.
Then he turned to head back inside, and froze.
Three figures were approaching the hospital entrance. A woman, leaning heavily on a man's arm. And on the man's back, a small body, limp and feverish.
Lucien recognized the woman immediately. It was her, the one he'd saved from the walker. The man beside her was tall and broad-shouldered. He carried a child who looked barely conscious.
Morgan Jones. And his son, Duane.
Morgan's eyes locked onto Lucien.
"Please," he called out. "Is there a doctor here? My son... he needs help."