Chapter 3

As it turns out, trying to sleep while coming to terms with becoming a fictional character with zero prospect of returning home was pretty hard.

My head had no time for sleeping, only thoughts. Often ones of existential dread. So all I could do was toss and turn in the stale smelling hospital room, trying to ignore the insignificant sounds in the hospital halls that made my skin crawl. It didn't help that I was already bad with the dark, but it became significantly worse when I knew that I was within the same building as hundreds of zombies.

But time had a knack of moving along, no matter how slowly it felt it was passing. And before I knew it, the sun was rising. The heralding sunlight filling me with limitless relief.

Though I didn't sleep a wink last night, I could not wait to leave this place. I had regathered enough of my marbles to stop dwelling on everything all at once and instead focus on what I would do from now forward. The existential questions could wait for another day. For now, I was hungry, thirsty and unsafe.

First, I needed to leave this hospital. Which, going by the show, should be easy enough. Leave the room, then walk to the reception exit before leaving through the fire-escape by the creepy doors. The ones that read 'Don't open! Dead inside!' A reassuring sentiment indeed, knowing I had slept the night only a few metres from that room.

I moved towards the door to my room, getting ready to open it. But before I did, I placed my ear against the door. I was hopeful there was nothing out there, but I wasn't going to swing the door open and hope I was as lucky as in the show.

Thankfully, there was no sound outside the door.

When I opened the door, the classic horror jump scare didn't occur, which brought me relief. My clenched facial muscles relaxed. I had half-imagined that on the other side, I would come face to face with a zombie.

The hall looked just as I could recall from the scene in the walking dead. At least somewhat. Doors were left ajar; medical equipment was just sitting out in the open, and paper was messily strewn across the floor. Everything lit by the sterile lights that still operated.

I pushed away the bed by the door, the one that was placed by Shane when things went to hell and looked out at the frankly creepy hall.

I like to think that when things get tough, I tend to keep calm, but the flashing light with the buzz of electricity made me nervous. I tried to ignore the feeling of being helplessly exposed and walked towards the flashing light.

My head peered into the ajar doors as I passed, hoping not to see any zombies inside. And besides a few traces of blood, I saw and heard nothing.

I reached the reception, and my head kept darting towards the flashing light, seriously underestimating how terrifying such a thing was when you were experiencing it yourself. It was the quintessential omen that something was wrong. And my hands couldn't help but work faster to find the matches on the desk.

I eventually found them, but besides the matches, there was nothing useful. Next was the moment of truth. And it would be a lie to say I wasn't scared to do this. But the dread of staying in the hospital was even stronger.

Ignoring the flashing light, I walked towards the looming metal doors ahead. Resisting the urge to look back at the corpse I knew was behind. I tiptoed through the debris-filled corridor to the only light ahead that lit the warning sprayed doors.

Although the chain looked sturdy, it wasn't good for my heart. This was the most stress I had felt in years, and it didn't help that I was in a body that was ten years older and had just come out of a Coma.

But it didn't matter how quiet I walked. It was hard to stay silent when most of the crumbled ceiling was on the floor, and the disembowelled wires were hanging in my way. Just the brush of my bare feet against was enough to be above the usual silence. And they reacted. Breathy moans and smashing glass were audible behind the door as they moved up against the door.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Their grey fingers were only faintly visible from the inky darkness on the other side. The door jolted back and forth under the combined attack. But I hadn't stood still; I moved through the door adjacent, moving towards the nearby elevators. Scanning the hall, I ran for the door with a red sign that read, 'Fire Exit.'

Seeing the door, I struck a match against the box and disappeared into the fire stairwell. The banging and groans went silent as the heavy metal door slammed shut behind me. 'Cughh!' The entire stairwell was encased in darkness.

My singular match gave me some light, but It was unnerving to rely on the little match as I traversed down these steps.

I didn't expect the stench in here. The smell was something akin to rotting food, and I pressed my arm against my nose. My breath stifling as I kept going. Knowing the origin was likely right outside those doors.

The match fizzled away, making me strike another before moving down the remaining steps—the matchlight highlighting the escape door. Which read 'exit' overhead.

I grabbed the handlebar and pushed, a grunt slipping my lips from even this small task. Rer-agh! The handle squealed under my force, and soon the steel door came loose, the door swinging open.

From the door, blinding light peered in. And for a moment, my eyes were stunned, making me raise my arm to cover my vision. The sound of crickets filled my ears as my hand fumbled forward to grab the stair handle ahead. The browning leaves on the moulded, rusty stairs trambled under my feet.

At the foot of the stairs, I stopped and looked out at the expansive parking bay. The scene I saw from my window was in clear view.

Bodies. Rows of bodies. Wrapped messily in dirty white sheets. Several weren't even white and instead a dirty reddish-brown. The same kind that was visible in small circles at the head of each body. And I could see a few pale, gaunt feet and heads poking out from beneath. Not even being covered properly. Flies hovered around the exposed areas, the combined buzz making me queasy.

I could feel my body trembling, the exposed eyes staring into my soul. Their faces mangled and vacant. I'd never seen a body, a dead one at least, and although I had expected it, I found it wasn't any easier.

This felt like something I could never get used to. But from my memories of the show, I would guess there wouldn't be a choice. Corpses, whether they be the ones that still walked or the ones packed onto trucks and laid out, would be my future—at least my future if I wanted to keep alive.

My feet took me from between the countless rows, my eyes trying not to look at the bodies. Though elsewhere wasn't much better to look at. The rest of the hospital was in ruins. The grimy hospital walls missing entire sections looking like the remains of a warzone—a segment above the fire escape I had just walked from gone. Wires and concrete barbs spiking from the skeletal walls.

Eventually, the bodies were left behind as I moved past the swinging hospital entrance sign that swung limply from a concrete pillar. Stepping around the several trashcans that lay scant across the road, I moved up the hill adjacent to the hospital. The body of the woman resting dead on the hill ignored as I heaved with difficulty upwards.

My shoulder was still causing me problems, and the hill posed more difficulty than I thought it would. Almost having to crawl with the ruinous state of my body.

The first thing that came into my view was a lone helicopter branded with a seven between two rapiers beneath the front window. Before I saw another parking. Although this time, military humvees, equipment and tents filled it.

I sidestepped the few wrapped bodies and looked at the military vehicles and equipment. I stopped and thought about whether I should find a weapon. I didn't have anything on me, and had I never felt more defenceless. With the state of my body, If I saw a zombie, I wouldn't have much luck.

The thought of those jaws tearing me apart was enough to spur me into action. I gingerly searched the scant military equipment. The boxes often containing just ammunition and tactical equipment like barbed wire. It was only when I stumbled upon the sight of a body before the bombed building ahead that I saw my first gun.

It was a pistol. From the new memories that flooded my mind, it was Berreta M9, the standard-issue pistol. For the first time, I was thankful for these memories. Not only for the knowledge but the countless memories of using weapons.

I had never used a gun in my life, but when I looked at the gun in front of me, I felt like I could use it. I stepped forward towards the weapon. My eyes transfixed on the body only a few metres away—trying to step as quiet as possible. My hand was unsteady as I reached for the gun, ready to pull back at any moment. But nothing unexpected happened. The body didn't move and just remained slumped over, filling me with relief.

Grabbing the gun, I scampered away from the body. My unease assuaged now that I had some form of protection. Though when I checked the magazine, there were only eight rounds left. But those eight were more than enough for now. If I had to use more than eight rounds, I would be fucked either way.

Soon I moved away from the military camp in front of the Harrison Memorial Hospital and navigated through several roads relying on the memories in my head to find my way. The sheer naturalness when I followed the route jarred me.

There were only a few shadows of zombies in the distance, so I had no problems, and soon I arrived at the fabled bike. The bisected corpse lay on a patch of dirt beneath the two trees nearby. I had thought it would have moved after I delayed leaving the hospital for a day, but then I realised it was likely unreactive.

And low and behold, as I grabbed the bike and pulled it back, the infected sprung to life, spinning onto its back and revealing its decaying face. Although I had expected it, I still jumped backwards–the bike frame justling alongside me. It was just so unnatural.

Its lipless mouth hissed at me, the grimy teeth surrounded by receding gums snapping up and down, clack, clack, clack. The remaining entrails followed behind the crawling upper body, slabs of yellowed flayed skin dragging along with it. All the while, its vacant eyes stared up at me, hunger present in its eyes.

I looked away, knowing it posed no threat, but as I jumped on the bike and pedalled away from the fading growling noises–its face kept flashing in my mind. Its image seared into my brain.

It didn't take long to reach the house in my memory. I knew it was technically my house, but I still found it hard to reconcile internally.

I placed the bike down in front of the front yard and looked at the old rusty chain-link fence and overgrown plants that surrounded the yard steps. It looked different from the memories in my head, vaguely more abandoned. The old tire swing and decorative ornaments looked the same, but there was a sense of vacancy. Dereliction.

My feet walked up the sunkissed stairs, the heat burning my toes a little as I wound up the path. My fingers rubbed up the varnish white porch pillars before my eyes ran to the small black metal mailbox on the other side. Letters plumed out from within.

The door was left open, and I entered the house. My gun primed in case of any surprises, but there was nothing besides displaced drawers and misplaced clothes. Neither Lori nor Carl were inside, and neither were the undead.

I had expected it, but I still felt a dull pain in my chest anyway. But I knew where they were, at least roughly.

I found some of my clothes mixed up in the jumble of left on the bed and finally got out of the hospital gown I'd been wearing for way too long. It felt great to finally be in some real clothes.

After putting on a plain mustard-coloured shirt, a pair of work boots and my favourite black jeans. At least the favourite jeans in my memory. I gave the house one more sentimental look, grabbed an old baseball bat I remembered from the loft and left the house.

My target the friendly father and son duo nearby. I wanted to change their fate. I knew what happened to me in the show, and I don't know if it was the Rick in me that influenced my thoughts. But I felt that I couldn't let what happened repeat itself. There was no need for that little boy to die.

And the more I thought about it, the better the decision was, and not just for sentimental reasons.

Firstly, I didn't feel confident roaming the streets trying to get to the police station on my own. I knew I could, but I didn't really want to. Not when I could get trustworthy help from the people next door. But also, If I could get just two more trustworthy people amongst the group, it would be a good decision.

I didn't know exactly where they were, but I knew they were in one of the houses nearby. And it would likely be boarded up and the windows covered. And with just that information, it didn't take me long to narrow down a suspect.

It was Fred and Cindy's house, neighbours who lived nearby. I approached carefully, being careful not to be so loud, and gave the door a knock.

"Fred. Cindy. Are you in there?" I asked, "if you're there, please help me." I heard a commotion inside as people moved from within.

I was about to continue again when the door opened, and a weary face looked out, a gun pointed towards me as he asked, "who the hell are you."

He was weary and kept the gun primed to my chest. My heart palpitated at the sight before memories of similar situations flooded my mind, and a coolness flooded my head.

"I'm Rick. Rick Grimes," I said with a placating smile as I raised my hands away from my two weapons. "I'm just here because I knew who used to live here. They were my neighbours Fred and Cindy Drake. I thought they might've known where my family went."

His face softened at my words, his squint easing as he lowered his gun, the door widening beside him. "Get in before you attract the walkers," he said, his hand gesturing for me to enter hurriedly.

I went in and watched as he closed the door. Inside, a small boy with an afro watched me cautiously, his hands firmly wrapped around the shovel in his hand. I gave a smile, but his vigilance didn't ease at all.

Turning from the boy, I saw Morgan looking toward me still with a guarded expression. Especially towards the gun that sat on my waistband.

I looked at him and slowly lowered my hand to the gun, making his facial muscles tense. "I can let you hold onto this while I'm here if that'll make you feel better."

His face relaxed a touch at the words, and he didn't refuse. He reached out and took the gun from my hands. I felt I was putting a lot of trust in the portrayal of characters in the show, but at the same time, my gut felt like Morgan was somebody that I could trust. Perhaps that was from Rick. I had never really been the trusting type before.

Putting the gun away, Morgan looked up and placed his revolver back on his waist as he walked in front of me and reached out his hand, "The names Morgan, Morgan Jones. That there behind you is my boy Duane. Nice to meet you, Rick."