Darkness.
A heavy, oppressive void that swallowed everything—time, thought, memory. No pain. No sound. Just a deep nothingness, like floating endlessly at the bottom of a black ocean. Then, something flickered in that emptiness. A sensation. A spark. A slow burn of awareness clawing its way up from the abyss.
Pain.
Dull at first, but then sharper, more distinct. It pulsed along his side like a hot wire. His fingers twitched. His chest rose, shallow and unsteady. Breath. Ragged, dry. It felt like breathing through sandpaper.
Beep.
A soft tone, mechanical and steady. Then another.
His eyes cracked open against the blinding white glare of artificial light. The ceiling above him was cracked, flaking paint hanging like old skin. One fluorescent bulb flickered erratically overhead. He squinted, eyes dry and stinging. Everything around him felt wrong.
He turned his head with effort. Machines beeped beside him. Tubes snaked from his arm. A hospital room. But not a normal one. It was too still. Too quiet.
And something in the air… wasn't right.
A faint stench.
Antiseptic.
And something darker—metallic and sour. Blood?
He tried to speak. "Where...?"
The word barely escaped his throat, dry as bone. He coughed, wincing as pain exploded in his ribs. He looked down and saw bandages wrapped around his abdomen, yellowed with age.
Confusion surged in his chest, followed by adrenaline.
His name was Marcus Holt.
Or—at least it had been.
Marcus Holt, 35 years old. Former U.S. Special Forces.
He wasn't just some soldier who'd done his time and moved on. No. He had been part of black-ops teams that didn't officially exist. Counter-terrorism. Hostage rescue. Urban warfare. A ghost who had operated in the shadows of Afghanistan, South America, and Africa. A tactician. A killer. A survivor.
But after twelve years, Marcus had walked away. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. His last mission ended in a massacre—civilians caught in the crossfire, orders ignored, and a conscience that couldn't take it anymore.
He'd been decorated. Honored. And still, he left with nothing but a duffel bag and guilt. He moved to a remote cabin outside Austin, Texas, drinking more than sleeping. He kept to himself. He didn't talk much to anyone—except when they asked about his scars.
And in his silence, he found escape in fiction.
One of the few things that dulled the memories was television—particularly a show he'd binged obsessively: The Walking Dead. He admired Rick Grimes, but also criticized him. In Marcus's eyes, Rick was too emotional. Too reactive. Too slow to kill when it mattered. That kind of softness got people killed.
Marcus had often thought, If I were him, I'd do it differently. Smarter. Colder. I'd survive longer. I'd make the hard choices.
Now... somehow, impossibly, he was him.
He sat up suddenly. Pain tore through his abdomen. His vision swam. The machines beeped wildly as he yanked the IV needle from his arm, the monitor's flatline whining in protest. Blood trickled from the needle site, but he ignored it.
His instincts kicked in. Assess. Move. Adapt.
He scanned the room. The door was closed. The windows were shuttered. The emergency lights blinked faintly in the hallway. No doctors. No nurses. No patients.
And a uniform sat neatly folded on the nearby chair.
He staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth through the pain. Every inch of movement was a test of endurance, but he pushed through it. His body was weak, but his mind was sharp—anchored by years of battlefield training.
He limped to the chair and picked up the shirt.
Sheriff's deputy. King County.
He knew this place. He knew this uniform.
It belonged to Rick Grimes.
He rushed into the bathroom and flipped on the light. The mirror was cracked, stained with grime. The face staring back at him wasn't his own.
Short, curled brown hair. A square jaw. Pale skin with stubble.
Rick Grimes.
"Jesus Christ…" he whispered.
He stared for a long time, trying to process it.
He remembered being shot—Rick's memory. A shootout at a gas station. Then darkness. Coma. Silence.
But Marcus's own memories were still vivid. He remembered the heat of gunfire. The cold tension of a sniper scope. The smell of cordite. He remembered losing teammates. Kills he never spoke of.
And now he was in this body. This story.
Somehow, Marcus Holt had transmigrated into the world of The Walking Dead—into Rick's body.
This wasn't just a hallucination. It was too real. The pain. The scent. The sweat on his skin. Every soldier's instinct screamed that this was reality.
The Walking Dead was no longer fiction.
And the apocalypse had already begun.
He knew what came next.
The hospital was abandoned. The staff either dead or fled. Some of them likely reanimated. The hallways would be dark, and somewhere nearby, the dead were walking. The infection had already spread. Civilization was gone.
And he was alone.
But this time, Rick wasn't the man waking up with no clue how to survive.
He was Marcus Holt. And Marcus had survived far worse than this.
He searched the hospital room for anything useful.
A wheelchair leg made of solid aluminum. Good as a club. Ripped curtain cords for a makeshift sling. Medical scissors. Alcohol pads. Bandages. He fashioned a basic go-bag from a pillowcase and stuffed it with supplies.
He removed the hospital gown and put on the uniform shirt. It was tight across his bandaged stomach, but he didn't care. The badge still glittered under the flickering light. Rick Grimes. Deputy.
He looked down at the nameplate.
"I'll carry your name," Marcus muttered. "But I'm doing this my way."
He opened the hospital door, peeking into the hallway.
Silence.
The walls were smeared with bloody handprints. A stretcher lay overturned. A body sat slumped against a vending machine, unmoving.
His eyes narrowed. He stepped into the hallway, knees bent slightly, muscles coiled like a spring. Even injured, his steps were silent. Ghostlike.
He crept forward, every nerve alert.
A distant moan echoed down the corridor.
His first walker.
He found the double doors leading to the stairwell. A chain had been wrapped around the handles, crudely locking them. A warning was scrawled in red:
DON'T OPEN
DEAD INSIDE
He stared at it, heart thudding—not with fear, but anticipation.
This was it. The true beginning. The threshold.
He backed away and headed in the opposite direction. He wasn't ready to fight—not yet. Not until he had a weapon that could do real damage.
Reaching the end of the hall, he shoved open an emergency door and stepped into blinding sunlight.
The world outside was silent.
Birds gone. Cars abandoned. Roads cracked.
The dead had already taken the city.
He descended the hospital steps slowly, taking everything in. The world was eerily still, frozen in the first stages of collapse. He moved from cover to cover, scanning every corner.
He made it to the parking lot and broke into a nearby maintenance shack. Inside, he found a crowbar, a flashlight, and a roll of duct tape.
Good. He was starting to feel like himself again.
Weapon. Light. Tool.
He could work with this.
As the sun began to dip low in the sky, casting long shadows over the lifeless city, Marcus stood at the edge of the road, looking out over a world he once knew from a screen.
But this wasn't television anymore.
This was war.
And unlike Rick Grimes, he was ready for it.
He tightened his grip on the crowbar and muttered, "This time, we're doing it my way."
No more hesitation. No mercy for threats. No emotional mistakes. If the world had gone to hell, then he'd be the devil it feared.