The sun dipped behind a wall of dead trees as Marcus trudged down the cracked asphalt. His stomach ached, his bandages sticky with sweat and dried blood. But pain was just background noise now. He'd long been trained to ignore it.
He walked like a ghost through the remains of the city. Cars sat abandoned with doors ajar, windshields caked in grime. Luggage lay scattered. A child's teddy bear lay on the side of the road, stained with something dark and crusted.
The silence was absolute.
In his former life, Marcus had marched through war zones quieter than this—after the bombing had stopped and the scavengers had already picked the corpses clean. The kind of quiet that only comes when death has made its rounds.
He kept the crowbar in a ready grip, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow. Every window, every rooftop, every alley could hide a threat. And unlike Rick, Marcus didn't plan on getting caught off guard. Not again.
Eventually, he found an old bicycle leaning against a chain-link fence, the tires flat but still usable. He hoisted it and took off toward the suburbs. According to memory—Rick's memory—his home was only a few miles out.
It was strange. He remembered loving a woman named Lori. He remembered Carl. Their faces flashed in his head like distorted photographs. Warmth and sorrow tangled together.
But they weren't his family.
Still, something inside him wanted to find them.
Maybe to protect them. Maybe just to see if this world could still offer something worth fighting for beyond survival.
He reached the neighborhood by late afternoon. It was empty. Lawns overgrown. Windows broken. Blood trails ran down driveways. No birds. No dogs barking.
Marcus reached Rick's house and stepped through the front door, already ajar. The inside was dark, furniture toppled, mail scattered across the floor. He swept each room like he was clearing a building—checking corners, covering blind spots.
Empty.
He found the family photo on the mantle. Rick, Lori, Carl. The boy couldn't have been more than ten.
"They're gone," he muttered. "Of course they are."
He grabbed a backpack from the bedroom closet and filled it with whatever useful supplies he could find—two bottles of water, a kitchen knife, canned beans, a lighter, a flashlight.
Suddenly, a noise outside. A scuff. A groan.
He turned instantly, dropping to a crouch near the window. His eyes locked on the front lawn.
A walker.
Its jaw hung crooked. Skin sagged like wet paper. It limped slowly down the sidewalk, dragging a broken leg. Not much threat—yet.
He waited until it passed, then slipped out the back door.
The sun dipped low on the horizon. He found a shed behind a neighboring house and decided to hole up for the night. It was secure, small, and easily defensible. He barricaded the door with a broken chair and laid his crowbar across his lap.
Sleep didn't come easily.
Memories flickered.
Not Rick's—but Marcus's.
His last mission in Mali. A hostage rescue that went sideways. He'd dragged a wounded teammate out under fire, only to watch the hostage die from a hidden mine. Command had called it a success. Marcus called it a failure.
He still remembered the weight of that woman's body. The cold, lifeless eyes.
He opened his eyes in the darkness.
No more mistakes.
He woke at dawn to distant gunshots.
Three pops. Small caliber. Controlled bursts.
Marcus stood and shouldered his bag. He moved toward the sound, keeping to cover, weaving through backyards and alleys. The world was changing fast—those shots meant someone was still out there, armed, alive, and not completely stupid.
He found them in an abandoned house two blocks away.
A man and a boy.
Morgan and Duane.
Marcus recognized them instantly. Morgan had a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Duane held a baseball bat, fear written all over his face.
Marcus stepped out slowly, hands raised. "Don't shoot."
Morgan whipped the rifle up. "Back off! I'll drop you right now!"
"Easy," Marcus said calmly. "I'm not infected."
"You're one of them?" Duane asked, stepping behind his father.
"I'm not. Just woke up in the hospital. Name's Rick... Rick Grimes."
Morgan squinted. "Hospital?"
"Coma," Marcus replied. "I was shot. Woke up yesterday. Place was abandoned."
Morgan slowly lowered the rifle, disbelief all over his face. "Damn. You've got no idea what's going on, do you?"
"I've got a rough idea," Marcus said, glancing at the boarded-up windows. "But I could use a refresher."
Morgan hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. You'd better come inside."
They sat around a battery-powered lantern as Morgan explained the collapse. The infection. How people died and got back up. How the government failed. The military went dark. The cities burned.
Duane listened quietly. Marcus noticed the kid had the kind of fear in his eyes only war could teach.
"I saw the dead walking," Marcus said. "Even killed one."
Morgan nodded. "You're lucky. Most folks don't make it after their first."
Marcus glanced at the rifle. "You've been holding your own."
"Barely. We're running low on food. Water's safe for now. I was thinking about heading to Atlanta. They say there's a safe zone there."
Marcus remembered that. The so-called "sanctuary" surrounded by fences and soldiers. It would fall, eventually. But for now, it was the best lead.
"My family might be there," Marcus said.
Morgan looked at him, considering. "Then maybe we go together."
That night, Marcus took first watch.
He sat by the window, crowbar on his lap, listening to the wind carry distant groans.
This world isn't built for good men, he thought. But it is built for men like me.
And this time, Rick Grimes wouldn't lead with hope or hesitation.
He'd lead like Marcus Holt—with precision, discipline, and zero illusions.