The seventh day dawned with an unsettling silence.
I had grown used to the hospital's quiet—the distant moans of the walkers, the occasional groan of the building settling. But this morning, there was something different in the air. A tension I couldn't quite explain.
I left my room with my makeshift backpack slung over my shoulder. I had packed the essentials: water, a few protein bars I'd scavenged from a doctor's office, bandages, and the pocketknife. It wasn't much, but in this new world, anything could be the difference between life and death.
First, I went to the interior garden. My morning routine included checking the plants I'd been cultivating. I had turned that small space into something resembling an experimental orchard. Tomatoes, some herbs, and I had even managed to germinate some beans from an old can in the cafeteria.
I extended my hands over the plants and felt that familiar connection. Energy flowed from me into them, and I watched them visibly grow. The tomatoes ripened from green to red in a matter of minutes. It wasn't magic, I realized. It was more like... accelerating time for them. Giving them everything they needed—nutrients, energy, light—compressed into moments instead of weeks.
I picked some ripe tomatoes and tucked them into my bag. Fresh food was going to be a luxury soon. Very soon.
After a quick breakfast—an energy bar and a tomato that tasted like heaven after days of processed food—I headed to Rick's room.
The hallway was darker than usual. Some of the windows facing outside were broken, likely from looting or people trying to escape. I stepped carefully, avoiding broken glass and puddles of... well, I preferred not to think about what those puddles were.
There was a new walker in the hall. It hadn't been there yesterday. It was a young man, maybe twenty, in a nursing uniform. Half of his face had been... eaten. I could see his jawbone.
He turned toward me as I approached, his dead eyes locking onto mine with that mindless hunger that defined them. He began to shuffle in my direction, slow but steady.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I knew he couldn't hear me. Not really.
I diverted down another hallway, using my knowledge of the hospital to bypass him. There was no point in risking a fight I could avoid. Conserve energy, don't be a hero. Those were the rules for survival.
I reached Room 234 through an alternate route. The door was ajar, just as I had left it. I pushed it open gently and stepped inside.
Rick was still in the bed, but something had changed. His breathing was more labored, irregular. His eyes moved frantically beneath his lids. He was sweating.
"Shit," I muttered, moving closer. I checked the IV—it had been completely dry for days. I checked the pulse in his neck—fast, but strong. He was dehydrated, probably malnourished, but he was alive.
And he was about to wake up.
I knew it for certain. Today. Today would be the day.
I sat in the chair beside his bed and waited. I didn't know exactly what I was going to say when he woke up. "Hi, I'm Jon, the world ended, and by the way, I have plant powers" didn't seem like the best opening move.
The hours passed slowly. I took out my knife and cleaned it with a scrap of fabric torn from a sheet. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing. I wondered if I should look for something better, but I didn't want to leave Rick's side now.
I practiced with my powers a bit, just to stay focused. There was a small, withered plant on the windowsill—likely a gift for a former patient. I revived it, then grew it until its branches touched the ceiling. Then I made it recede, wither, and grow again. Control. It was all about control.
I was so focused on the plant that I almost missed the moment.
A gasp.
I whipped my head around. Rick's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling with absolute confusion. His breathing was rapid, bordering on panic.
"Hey," I said softly, raising my hands to show I wasn't a threat. "Easy. You're okay. You're safe."
Rick jerked his head toward me, his blue eyes wide. He tried to speak, but only a croak came out. His throat must have been as dry as a desert.
"Wait," I said, pulling a water bottle from my pack. "Here. Slowly."
I helped him sit up a bit—he was heavier than I expected, pure muscle even after the coma—and held the bottle to his lips. He drank desperately, coughing slightly.
"Slowly," I repeated. "You've been asleep a long time. Your body needs to adjust."
He drank more, this time with more control. When he had finished nearly half the bottle, he finally truly looked at me.
"Who...?" his voice was raspy, broken. "Where is...?"
"Harrison Memorial Hospital, Atlanta," I said. "Do you remember what happened?"
Rick frowned, his hand instinctively going to his side. The gunshot wound was there, covered in old bandages that likely needed changing.
"I was shot," he muttered. "Car chase. The suspect had a shotgun. I... Shane. Where's Shane?"
My stomach twisted. Shane. My uncle in this life. The man who would soon become the villain of the first season—but it wouldn't end that way if I could help it. Shane was a man of principles who made a series of catastrophically bad decisions.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "The hospital was evacuated. I think it was days ago, maybe weeks. It's hard to tell."
Rick looked at me as if I'd just spoken in another language.
"Evacuated? Why? What...?" He tried to get out of bed and nearly collapsed. I caught his arm to steady him.
"Easy, man. You've been in a coma. Your muscles are weak."
"Coma? How long?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "I woke up about a week ago. You were already here."
Rick studied me with those sheriff's eyes that had likely interrogated hundreds of suspects.
"Who are you? Are you a patient?"
"Jon Walsh," I said. The surname made him blink. "Yeah, a patient. Car accident right before everything went to hell. And yeah, before you ask, that Walsh. Shane is my uncle."
That got his full attention.
"Shane is your uncle? Where is he? Did he tell you anything before he left?"
I shook my head.
"I haven't seen Shane. Like I said, the hospital was evacuated when I woke up. But Rick..." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "There's something you need to know. Something happened. Something bad."
"What kind of bad?"
I stood up and walked to the window. From here, you could see part of the Atlanta skyline. Columns of smoke still rose from various points in the city. Abandoned buildings. Empty streets.
"Come," I said. "It's better if you see for yourself."
Rick stood with difficulty, clutching the bed frame. He wore only a hospital gown and looked incredibly vulnerable. He shuffled toward me like an old man, every step an effort. When he reached the window and looked out, I saw the exact moment it clicked.
"My God," he whispered. "What happened?"
"Disease," I said. "Or at least, that's how it started. It spread fast. The dead... they don't stay dead, Rick. They get back up. And they attack the living."
Rick turned to me so fast he nearly lost his balance.
"What? The dead? Are you...?"
"I'm not crazy," I said firmly. "I know how it sounds. Believe me, when I woke up and saw the first walker, I thought I was hallucinating. But it's real. All of it."
"Walker," he repeated. "You call them walkers."
I shrugged.
"It's better than 'zombies,' right? Though I guess technically, that's what they are."
Rick slumped into the chair, his face pale. He ran his hands through his hair—longer than he'd probably ever had it—and took a deep breath.
"My family," he said suddenly. "Lori. Carl. Where are they?"
"I don't know," I said softly. "But listen, Rick. The government set up evacuation zones. Atlanta was one of them. If Shane got them out of town, they probably headed there. Toward Atlanta."
Rick nodded, clinging to that hope like a drowning man to a life jacket.
"I have to find them. I have to..." He tried to stand again and almost fell. This time I couldn't catch him in time, and he hit the floor with a groan of pain.
"Shit, I'm sorry," I said, helping him sit up against the wall. "Look, I get that you want to find your family. But you need to get your strength back first. You can't even walk straight. It's full of those things out there. They'll kill you in seconds."
"I don't care," Rick said with that stubbornness I would come to know so well. "I have to know if they're okay."
"And you will," I said. "But first, you need to eat. You need to walk a bit, get your strength back. Give me one day. Just one day to get you on your feet, and then we go look for them together."
Rick looked at me suspiciously.
"Why would you help me?"
It was a good question. How could I explain that I knew he was the key to survival? That I had watched his future on a TV screen in another life?
"Because I'm a fourteen-year-old kid alone in a hospital full of the walking dead," I said instead, which was also true. "Because I need help as much as you do. And because Shane is my uncle, and if there's any chance he's alive, I want to find him too."
Rick studied my face for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"One day," he said. "You give me one day to recover, and then we go find my family."
"Deal," I said, extending my hand. Rick shook it. His grip was weak now, but I could feel the strength that would return in time.
I helped him back to bed and gave him one of my tomatoes. Rick looked at it in surprise.
"Where did you get this?"
"Cafeteria," I lied. Well, technically the seeds came from there. "There's still some food if you know where to look."
Rick devoured the tomato in seconds. I gave him another, and then an energy bar. He ate slowly this time, savoring every bite.
"Thank you," he said when he finished. "Jon, right?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you, Jon. For staying. For waiting. For... for not letting me die here alone."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. In the show, Rick had woken up alone. He had to face all of this with no help, no idea what was happening. Changing that—being here for him—felt important somehow.
"Rest some more," I said. "I'm going to find more water and food. And some clothes for you. You can't go around in a hospital gown."
Rick nodded, his eyes already closing. The effort of waking, of eating, had exhausted him.
I left the room silently and leaned against the hallway wall. My heart was pounding. I'd done it. Rick had woken up. I'd made contact. Now I just had to keep him alive.
Alone.
Ha.
I headed first to the staff locker room. I needed to find clothes for Rick, something that would fit. Most of the lockers were open, looted, or abandoned in the rush of evacuation. But I found a pair of jeans that looked like his size, a t-shirt, even some work boots someone had left behind. It wasn't the sheriff's uniform he was used to, but it would do.
I also found something else. In the bottom of a locker, wrapped in a police belt: a gun.
It was a Glock 19. The magazine was full. There was even a box of extra rounds.
I held the weapon with shaking hands. I had never fired a gun in my life. Well, in either of my lives. But I knew we would need it. The world out there wasn't kind to the unarmed.
I tucked the pistol into my pack, making sure the safety was on. I'd figure out how to use it later. Or better yet, I'd let Rick have it. He'd know what to do with it.
I went back to the interior garden after that. I needed to collect more food, grow more plants. If Rick and I were heading out tomorrow, we would need supplies.
I spent the next few hours working with the plants. I grew more tomatoes, accelerated the beans until I had full pods. I even found an old potato plant in a corner—likely from some patient therapy project—and made it produce tubers.
It was exhausting. Every time I used my powers, it felt like I was running a marathon. My body grew tired, my head ached, I was thirsty. But it was worth it. In a few hours, I had produced what would normally take weeks of farming.
As the plants grew, I thought about the future. What was to come.
Rick would go to King County first, to look for his family at his house. He'd find the house empty. He'd run into Morgan and Duane. And then he'd head to Atlanta, following the radio broadcasts from the CDC.
That was where things got complicated. Atlanta was a death trap in the show. Rick almost died on his first day. Glenn's group was small, vulnerable. And they hadn't found the quarry camp yet.
But I knew where the camp was. I knew Shane, Lori, and Carl were there. I could lead Rick directly to them, avoid the whole disaster in Atlanta.
Except... should I? If I changed too much, too fast, I could cause a domino effect. I could make things worse instead of better. I had to be careful. I had to think through every move.
A moan snapped me out of my thoughts.
I turned quickly. There was a walker at the entrance to the garden. An elderly woman in a patient gown, half of her face decomposed. She must have followed the sound of my movements.
"Shit," I whispered, backing away. There was no other exit from the garden. I was trapped.
The walker advanced, arms outstretched, jaw snapping. I kept backing up until my back hit the wall.
Think. Think, Jon.
My eyes fell on the plants I had been growing. The vines. I had grown them strong and thick.
I reached my hand out toward them and felt the connection. Energy surged from me, and the vines responded instantly. They lashed forward like green snakes, coiling around the walker's legs.
The woman stumbled, hitting the floor with a wet thud. The vines kept growing, wrapping around her, tightening. She kept moving, trying to crawl toward me, but she was completely immobilized.
I stood there, panting, looking at what I'd done. I had used my powers offensively for the first time. And it had worked.
But the walker was still alive. Well, undead. I had to finish this.
I searched the garden and found an old shovel leaning against a wall. I grabbed it with shaking hands and approached the motionless walker.
"I'm sorry," I whispered again. I didn't know why I kept apologizing. They couldn't hear me. They couldn't feel anything.
I closed my eyes and swung. The sound was horrific. I had to strike three times before it stopped moving.
When I opened my eyes, I was trembling. There was blood on the shovel, black and clotted blood. The smell was nauseating.
I dropped the shovel and ran out of the garden. I made it to a bathroom and vomited in the sink. Over and over until there was nothing left in my stomach.
My first kill. Well, re-kill. Whatever it was, I had killed someone. Something. And it felt horrible.
But I knew it wouldn't be the last. In this world, killing was surviving. I had to get used to it.
I washed my face with the water left in the pipes—likely the last running water I'd see for a long time—and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes looked older than they should. Fourteen years old and I had already killed.
"Welcome to the apocalypse, Jon," I told my reflection.
I returned to the garden and collected the food I'd grown, carefully avoiding looking at the body on the floor. I filled my pack and then went back to Rick's room.
He was awake, staring at the ceiling.
"Hey," I said softly. "I brought food. And clothes."
Rick sat up, looking a bit better than before. The rest had done him good.
"Are you okay?" he asked, watching me closely. "You look pale."
"I had a run-in with a walker," I admitted. "First time I... you know. Had to take care of one."
Rick nodded understandingly.
"What happened?"
"I killed it. Or her. It was a woman." I sat in the chair, suddenly exhausted. "It wasn't like I thought it would be."
"It never is," Rick said quietly. "Taking a life, even a life-less one, is never easy. If it ever becomes easy, that's when you should worry."
I nodded, grateful for his words. Rick could be stubborn and sometimes too idealistic, but he was a good man. That would never change.
I passed him the clothes, and Rick dressed slowly, still weak but improving. The jeans were a little loose—he'd lost weight during the coma—but the boots were perfect.
"Much better," he said, looking himself over. "I almost feel human again."
We shared the food I'd brought. Rick ate greedily, his body desperate for nutrients. I told him more about what I'd seen over the past week—how the hospital was almost empty of the living but full of walkers, and the evacuation zones that had supposedly been set up.
I didn't tell him about my powers. Not yet. It was too soon.
"So the plan for tomorrow," Rick said after eating. "We leave the hospital, head to King County. I check my house. If Lori and Carl aren't there, I look for clues on where they went."
"Atlanta," I said. "They probably went to Atlanta. Like I said, it was an evacuation zone."
Rick nodded.
"Then we go to Atlanta."
"Rick," I said carefully. "Atlanta is big. And it's probably full of those things. We need a plan. We need weapons, a vehicle, supplies."
"I know," he said. "But first I need to know if they're alive. If there's any chance..."
"There is," I said with conviction. Because I knew it was true. Lori, Carl, and Shane were alive. At the quarry camp. Safe and sound. For now.
Rick looked at me with curiosity.
"You talk like you know it for certain."
"Hope," I lied. "It's what keeps us alive, right?"
Rick smiled slightly. It was the first time I'd seen him smile, and it reminded me of the Rick from the show, before all the horror changed him.
"You're a good kid, Jon. Shane must be proud of you."
The comment hit me harder than expected. Shane. My uncle in this life.
"Yeah," I said weakly. "I guess so."
We spent the rest of the day planning. Rick rested frequently—his body was still recovering—but between rests, we talked about strategies, what we would need, and how to move without attracting walkers.
Rick was a sheriff. He thought tactically, strategically. He asked me questions about the hospital routes, where I'd seen the most walkers, and potential exits. I answered as best I could, impressed by his professionalism even in these circumstances.
As it began to get dark, I showed him the pistol I'd found.
Rick's eyes lit up.
"A Glock 19," he said, taking it with expert hands. He checked the magazine, the chamber, the safety. "Good gun. Reliable." He looked at me. "Do you know how to use one?"
I shook my head.
"I've never fired a gun."
"Then tomorrow I'll teach you the basics," he said. "In this world, you need to know how to defend yourself."
I nodded, grateful. Knowing how to use a weapon was essential. I couldn't rely solely on my plant powers. Sometimes, you just need a bullet.
That night, I slept in Rick's room. I dragged a mattress from another room and put it on the floor. It wasn't comfortable, but I felt safer being near someone. Near Rick.
Before sleeping, I checked the hallway one last time. Everything was quiet. The walkers seemed less active at night, or at least slower. It was a small advantage.
I lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling in the dark. I could hear Rick's steady breathing from the bed. He was asleep, resting for tomorrow's journey.
Tomorrow everything would change. Tomorrow we would step out into the real world, into the full apocalypse. Tomorrow my true test would begin.
Could I keep Rick alive? Could I change the events I knew were coming? Could I save the people who died in the show?
I didn't know. But I had to try.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.