Pain was the first thing Rick felt.
Not sharp—dull and heavy, spreading through his body like it had forgotten how to move. The air was dry, stale, wrong. Rick opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for several seconds, trying to understand why it was so quiet.
"Lori…" he whispered.
No answer.
The hospital room looked abandoned. The monitors were dark, wires torn loose, IV bags empty. Dust coated the floor. Dark stains marked the tiles. The smell wasn't clinical—it was rotten.
Rick pushed himself up, fighting dizziness, and stepped into the hallway.
Silence pressed in on him. Overturned carts. Broken doors. Scratches on the walls. On the stairwell landing, bodies lay piled together—patients still strapped to beds, nurses among them.
One of them twitched.
Its eyes snapped open.
Rick ran.
Outside, the world was dead.
Abandoned cars. Empty streets. Distant moans drifting on the air. He made it home—only to find it ransacked and empty. No Lori. No Carl.
Morgan and Duane gave him the first real answers. People died. Then they got back up. You had to shoot them in the head.
Rick took his uniform, grabbed what weapons he could, and moved on.
The Police Station
The police station had been hit—but not cleaned out.
Rick moved through it methodically. Not like a scared man. Like a cop.
He emptied the armory.
Colt Python (.357 Magnum)
Beretta 92FS (9×19)
Remington 870 shotgun
magazines and boxed ammunition
Motorola XTS police radios with spare batteries
belts, holsters, flashlights
He took everything he could carry and loaded the patrol car.
Rick clipped one radio to his belt and keyed the mic.
"Anyone out there?"
Static.
He left the radio on anyway.
Atlanta
Atlanta was a trap.
Walkers poured in from every direction. Rick fired, ran, stumbled—until he burst onto a wide street.
A tank sat in the middle of it.
Rick climbed inside just in time and slammed the hatch shut.
The tank wasn't empty.
A walker in military fatigues lunged at him. Rick fired at point-blank range.
When it dropped, he searched the body and took:
Beretta M9
M67 fragmentation grenade
Rick was catching his breath when the radio crackled.
"Knock-knock," a voice said.
"Please tell me you're not one of the dead guys currently chewing on tank armor."
Rick froze.
"I'm alive," he answered. "Who is this?"
A pause.
"Oh, thank God.
I was this close to having an extremely awkward conversation with a zombie."
Rick frowned.
"Who are you?"
"Glenn," the voice said.
"And congratulations—you've officially won 'Worst Place to Wake Up'."
Rick swallowed.
"I'm in a tank."
"Yeah, I noticed," Glenn replied.
"Bad news: Atlanta is full.
Worse news: you're right in the middle of it.
Good news: you're not dead yet."
"That's supposed to help?"
"Absolutely," Glenn said.
"You could've woken up already being eaten.
Instead, you got a tank. Very stylish."
Rick sighed.
"What do I do?"
"First—don't panic.
Second—don't fire unless you have to. Noise is bad.
Third…" Glenn paused.
"You good at following instructions?"
"Yes."
"Great. Because if you don't listen, you're dead.
And I don't want that on my conscience."
Rick looked up at the hatch.
"Okay. I'm listening."
"That's the spirit, cowboy," Glenn said.
"Let's get you out of there alive."
For the first time since waking up, Rick felt like he wasn't alone.