Rick studied a crudely drawn map on the floor, pieced together from memory and Morgan's descriptions. His finger traced a route to the King County Police Department, a place he knew intimately — his old station.
"We're going to the station," Rick said, standing. "There's still gear in the armory — guns, vests, maybe even flashbangs. It could give us an edge when things get worse."
Morgan looked at him, hesitant. "You sure it's worth the risk? The streets aren't safe."
Rick gave a thin smile, one honed from warzones and gunfire. "Nothing worth taking ever is."
At dawn, they moved out — Rick on foot, Morgan and Duane trailing in the cruiser. The station loomed in the distance, its silhouette familiar yet haunted.
The front doors were ajar, creaking with the wind. Inside, it smelled of stale sweat and decay.
Rick took point, crowbar in hand, boots silent on tile. They passed empty cells, blood-stained desks, and cracked monitors before reaching the armory.
With practiced fingers, Rick entered the code. The keypad beeped twice — then clicked.
The heavy metal door groaned open.
Inside were rows of black steel.
Rick's eyes scanned the shelves. The contents were better than he'd hoped.
Inventory:
6 Glock 17 pistols (9mm)
3 Remington 870 shotguns
2 M4A1 carbines with red dot sights
2 AR-15 rifles
1 Ruger Precision Rifle (.308, with scope)
1 M24 sniper rifle with suppressor
12 flashbang grenades
4 frag grenades
10 full sets of loaded magazines
2 bulletproof vests
Multiple holsters, belts, and tactical pouches
Rick opened a locker and found something he hadn't expected — his old badge and name tag, still intact, along with a worn photograph of Lori and Carl.
He pocketed it, jaw tightening.
"This gear could outfit a small unit," he muttered.
Outside the back exit, Rick found a small paddock. Tethered loosely to a fence was a brown horse, lean and alert. It pawed at the ground nervously but showed no signs of injury or fear.
Rick approached slowly, calming the horse with quiet words and steady hands.
"You remember me, don't you?" he whispered.
He stroked its mane, tested the saddle, and gently mounted.
The saddle was cracked but serviceable. The reins held.
Rick turned to Morgan and Duane.
"You two load everything into the cruiser. Prioritize the long guns, ammo, and grenades. I'll scout ahead on horseback — quieter, faster. We'll rendezvous at the west side of town, near the railroad crossing."
Morgan looked unsure. "You sure about splitting up?"
Rick nodded. "Positive. Horse keeps me mobile. If anything goes wrong, you've got wheels and firepower. Keep the doors locked."
Morgan hesitated, then loaded the final crate.
Duane waved from the back seat, trying to imitate a soldier's salute.
Rick smiled faintly, then kicked the horse gently. "Let's ride."
Rick rode through the empty streets of King County, the rhythmic clop of hooves echoing like a heartbeat through death-silent neighborhoods.
He saw what the world had become — burned homes, shattered glass, bodies curled on porches as if they'd only just lain down.
His jaw clenched.
His hands gripped the reins like they had gripped rifles in Kandahar and Fallujah.
Later that afternoon, reunited at the railway crossing, Rick rifled through the cruiser trunk and found an old police radio.
He cleaned the dials with a rag and tuned through the static.
Finally — a voice.
"…refuge… Atlanta… survivors… secure perimeter… CDC fallback zone…"
Rick pressed the button.
"This is Rick Grimes. Sheriff's deputy — now survivor. We've got weapons and supplies. Heading to Atlanta. If anyone's out there… respond."
The line crackled, then silence.
The fire crackled in the still night air, casting long shadows against the crumbling ruins of the gas station. Rick sat on an old plastic chair, rifle balanced across his lap, his eyes scanning the darkness with calm precision.
Morgan and Duane were asleep nearby, wrapped in old sleeping bags. The horse was tethered a few meters away, grazing quietly. The silence of the world was almost complete — no cars, no voices, only the occasional distant groan of a walker.
But Rick's mind was alive — Because he'd seen this story play out before.
Rick wasn't just surviving on instinct. His decisions weren't based on guesswork or luck. He remembered everything — not from this life, but the other one.
His past life, where The Walking Dead was fiction — a TV show. A story about a sheriff who wakes up to the end of the world and tries to hold on to his humanity while everything around him collapses.
Only now, he was that man. And the choices he made could change everything.
He knew what was coming — the CDC, the fall of the farm, the prison, Woodbury, Terminus… Negan.
The world would only get darker from here.
So Rick decided he wouldn't just try to survive day to day like he had in the show.
He would get ahead of the story.
As dawn broke, Rick spread out a weathered road map across the cracked concrete and began marking locations with charcoal.
"There," he murmured, pointing to a spot along the riverbank northeast of King County. "Good elevation, natural barriers, access to clean water, and land for farming. Defensible. Isolated. A perfect place to build a community."
A place like Alexandria.
Back in the show, Rick Grimes had stumbled into sanctuaries built by others.
But now — he would build the sanctuary himself.
His goals were clear:
Find fertile land and secure it.
Build perimeter walls early — first from scrap and wreckage, then reinforced with wood and concrete.
Scavenge solar panels, water filtration gear, and farming tools before the chaos made them rare.
Train every able-bodied person to shoot, fight, and work the land.
And most importantly — recruit strong allies before the world turned them hostile.
Which brought his thoughts to the Vatos.
Rick remembered them from the show. At first glance, they'd seemed like a rough gang holed up in a building in Atlanta. But they were more than that. Loyal. Brave. Family-first.
They were protecting a nursing home, pretending to be thugs to scare off threats.
And they'd been forgotten — left behind in the chaos. In the original story, they never showed up again.
Rick planned to change that.
"If I can bring them in early," he whispered to himself, "they won't be scattered or killed. They'll become my backbone to the new world.
Later that morning, Rick outlined the plan to Morgan as they packed supplies into the car.
"I'm heading into Atlanta," Rick said, holstering his Glock.
Morgan raised a brow. "You're going back into that hellhole?"
"I have to," Rick replied. "There's a group of survivors. They're strong, organized, and capable. If I can reach them, I can recruit them."
Morgan gave him a cautious look. "You know them?"
Rick hesitated. "In a way."
Morgan didn't press, but the way Rick spoke — with certainty and clarity — was enough.
Rick continued, "You and Duane take the car and head north. There's a river valley near mile marker 226 — fertile ground, good elevation. Set up camp there. I'll bring back help and supplies."
Rick rode into Atlanta alone, just like in the show — the horse's hooves echoing on the pavement, his rifle strapped to his back. Skyscrapers loomed like tombstones. Burned-out cars, rotting corpses, and ash lined the streets.
But this time, he wasn't naive.
He avoided the main herd routes, sticking to alleyways and rooftops. His knowledge of what was to come helped him avoid critical danger spots.
He reached the nursing facility by nightfall.