Chapter 1: The Walking Dead
Whoosh—
Caesar threw his lasso, looping it around a ragged woman's neck. He secured one end to his saddle horn and gently urged his horse forward.
The horse's legs powered into motion, violently dragging the woman along.
She stumbled, pitching forward face-first into the ground. But she didn't reflexively throw out her hands to catch herself—just let her face take the full impact.
"Hiss—hah—"
Unstoppable force yanked at the woman's neck as her body scraped against rough gravel and dirt.
Soon, her clothes and skin were shredded by the stones. Black blood clots and chunks of flesh ground away layer by layer, leaving a trail of gore across the yellow earth.
The stench hit him immediately. Caesar wrinkled his nose and muttered, "Dead is dead, but I still have to clean up the body. What a pain."
At the entrance to Caesar's ranch.
American ranches and farms had crude fencing—just wooden posts connected by a few rails, with iron-barred gates at the main entrance and some access points.
Even in peacetime, it wouldn't stop a normal person.
In these special times, the setup was downright precarious.
Caesar surveyed his surroundings, his eyes filled with worry as he looked at the railings and iron gate.
Outside the ranch's main gate stood several towering oak trees on either side, their imposing trunks like stern sentinels guarding the property.
Numerous "bodies" now hung from the oaks. When the wind blew, the "corpses" swayed in the air like macabre wind chimes.
Their fragile necks were continuously pressed into by the ropes, yet even so, they hadn't died.
Caesar was used to this by now. He removed the rope from his saddle horn, tossed it over an oak branch, and with a light kick to his horse's belly, hoisted the woman into the air.
Hanging upside down, Caesar could see her face clearly—gray flesh like over-tanned leather, bulging eyeballs that had fallen partway out, dangling against half her face.
That half had been ground away by the gravel road, exposing the bloody mess inside, the interior of her mouth clearly visible...
"No matter how many times I see it, walkers are truly disgusting things."
Caesar looked at the walker hanging in the air and voiced his complaint.
He wasn't a local—or rather, not from this world at all. Just a devoted fan of The Walking Dead who'd suddenly found himself transmigrated here.
When he first arrived, Caesar had actually been pretty happy. His new body was strong and tall, with high attractiveness.
Black hair, black eyes, facial features that combined Western definition with Eastern softness.
This place was Caesar's ranch. The ranch wasn't large—Caesar had borrowed a considerable sum to buy it and become a rancher, recruiting a few cowboys he got along with.
But before the ranch could turn a profit, the apocalypse arrived.
Still, Caesar was pleased about that too. The loans didn't need to be repaid anymore, and he had no close family to worry about—only needed to consider his own survival and that of his companions.
In his excitement, the original owner had gone on a drinking binge, kicked his legs out, and died—right when Caesar transmigrated over.
After absorbing the original owner's memories, Caesar realized something was off.
The ranch's location wasn't far from Georgia State Route 85. There was another rancher over that way named Hershel.
When Caesar heard Hershel's name and Route 85, he had a vague sense something was wrong.
Then he learned that a few months ago, there'd been an official report about a police officer being shot in King County. The officer's name was Rick Grimes.
From all these signs, Caesar understood he'd transmigrated into The Walking Dead universe.
The moment he confirmed it was The Walking Dead world, Caesar felt both joy and sorrow. Joy at entering a zombie world with relatively low difficulty, sorrow at inevitably having to face the dangers of the apocalypse.
Riding his bay horse, Caesar leisurely closed the wooden gate and looked back.
The walkers hung in the air struggling like wind chimes. This was lynch law—a type of cowboy vigilante justice.
In the wild frontier days, this kind of rough justice had served as a substitute for law, maintaining order through intimidation.
Caesar needed this violence to show his cowboys that he wasn't afraid of this apocalypse.
When soldiers are cowardly, only one suffers. When the general is cowardly, the whole nest suffers.
Following him, they didn't need to fear this apocalypse. He would lead them to survival.
This was Caesar's promise as a leader, and the confidence of someone who'd transmigrated here.
Sitting astride his bay horse, Caesar rode along the road, surveying his territory—if it could be called that.
The ranch had a good geographical location, situated in a valley called Black Pine Valley.
Surrounding it were continuous mountain ranges—tall and imposing, completely unlike mountains that should appear on plains. The peaks were steep and treacherous, with only the valley side being relatively gentle.
The outer sides were all sheer cliffs. If they were walkers, they'd be unable to cross the mountain range to enter the valley.
The continuous mountain range encircled the area like a treasure vase, with one gap in the mountains for entry and exit, about four lanes wide.
The elongated valley covered a massive area, nearly 324,000 hectares—equivalent to half of Shanghai.
The valley floor had abundant water and grass with a mild climate, very suitable for raising large numbers of cattle and sheep. Near the mountains, farmland could be cultivated for planting.
Of course, with the valley's interior being so large, it naturally wasn't just Caesar's small ranch. There were many other ranches as well.
But if he could control the entire valley, Caesar's power would increase geometrically.
Inside the ranch.
On the open grassland stood a few scattered buildings, crudely divided by wooden fences.
Separated into livestock area, living area, and warehouse.
The bay horse stopped near the stables. Caesar dismounted, and a young white man took the horse, leading it toward the stable.
"Boss, I'll take the horse."
Caesar glanced at the young white man—Jimmy, basically a wastrel who'd grown up without supervision, living with his grandfather and getting led astray by bad friends.
Later, Rip had brought him to the ranch and personally dealt with his troubles.
Just then, a hulking man walked over. He wore a crisp black denim jacket with black boots, dark sunglasses and a black cowboy hat. Combined with his thick beard, he looked exceptionally fierce.
This was Rip.
Rip had a blade of grass between his teeth as he asked, "How many did you hang today?"
"Quite a few. At least four or five." Caesar shook his head, indicating the situation wasn't good.
"If we don't block Buffalo Pass, walkers will just keep pouring in."
Buffalo Pass was the entrance to Black Pine Valley.
Caesar didn't brush off Rip's concern. He nodded firmly. "We need to go block Buffalo Pass."
Rip paused, thinking to himself: Caesar's become much more decisive.
Rip considered what to do next and asked, "Should we go find Old Man Leon and Horus to discuss it first?"
Old Man Leon and Horus were owners of ranches in the valley. They had the largest spreads with over a dozen hands—far more than Caesar's ranch.
Caesar thought for a moment and shook his head. "Horus and Old Man Leon—who knows if they're even alive."
"And whether they're dead or alive, we still need to block the pass."
Caesar's crisis awareness was strong, and he understood clearly.
Since Caesar wanted to control the entire valley, there were no friends within it—only enemies.
Rip looked at Caesar, the gleam in his eyes intensifying.
At dinnertime, Caesar's team of cowboys sat around the table in the stone house.
Candles flickered with dim light as varying degrees of confusion showed on each face.
Caesar scanned his available hands.
Old cowboy Lloyd, hothead Jimmy, right-hand man Rip, mature and steady Ryan, pink-haired cowgirl Tate, and black man with a white hat, Colby.
Six people—the ranch's entire force.
After a pause, Caesar spoke up: "I've decided that tomorrow, we'll head to Buffalo Pass to scout it out."
"And I'll organize a team to make a trip to Atlanta."
"What?!"
Caesar's announcement shocked everyone except Rip.
Tate chewed her gum, one foot propped on her chair, eyes bright. "Does that mean we can go on a shopping spree, boss?"
Tate's accent was a bit odd, but Caesar understood what she meant.
"Of course. We'll find a cargo truck in Atlanta, then hit up a department store and load up on stuff. Food, drinks, all of it."
At these words, Tate got so excited she waved her hands around, her head of pink hair bouncing.
Jimmy was happy too, hesitantly wanting to ask something, but Ryan interrupted from the side.
"Boss, if we're seeing this many walkers even way out here at our ranch, then Atlanta..."
Ryan, with his full beard, asked sincerely.
He didn't finish the sentence, but everyone understood his meaning.
Jimmy deflated a bit, though his eyes still held a glimmer of hope.