Ian's eyes opened slowly, his vision swimming into focus on an unfamiliar ceiling of weathered wood. Cobwebs draped across the beams like tattered lace, swaying gently in some unseen draft. He lay still for a moment, his body heavy against the worn fabric of a couch—its texture foreign beneath his fingertips as he brushed his hand across the surface. The material was rough, almost scratchy, nothing like anything he remembered owning.
With a groan, Ian pushed himself up into a sitting position, his muscles protesting the movement. His gaze swept across the room, taking in his surroundings with growing unease. He was in a living room, that much was clear, but it looked as though it had been abandoned for weeks, months, maybe longer. A thick layer of dust covered every surface—the coffee table, the mantle above a cold fireplace, even the armrests of the couch he'd been sleeping on.
The cabinets along one wall hung open at odd angles, their contents either missing or scattered across the floor. Empty boxes, torn packaging, and what looked like the remnants of someone's hurried search littered the ground. The curtains that covered the windows were heavy with grime, their fabric so laden with dust that Ian imagined a single touch would send clouds of it billowing through the air. Muted morning light filtered through the dirty fabric, casting the room in a sickly, greenish hue.
His eyes tracked across the chaos: newspapers strewn about like fallen leaves, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges. Several picture frames lay facedown on the floor, their glass shattered into spiderweb patterns. Ian's gaze lingered on one—a family photo visible through the cracks, showing smiling faces frozen in happier times. A birthday cake sat on the table in the image, candles lit, a little girl mid-laugh. The glass had fractured right across her face.
Other frames showed similar scenes: a couple on their wedding day, a teenage boy in a football uniform, a family dog. All of it abandoned, left to gather dust and decay. A vase had toppled from a side table, its dried flowers scattered across the floor in a brittle heap. Children's toys—a small red truck, a stuffed bear with one button eye missing—lay discarded in a corner, as if dropped mid-play and never picked up again.
The walls themselves told a story of panic. Ian noticed gouges in the drywall, places where it looked like furniture had been shoved aside in haste. A coat rack near what he assumed was the front door had been knocked over, jackets and scarves still tangled on it like the shed skin of the people who'd fled.
What the hell am I doing here? Ian's thoughts churned, sluggish and confused. His memory felt like it was wrapped in fog, important details slipping away even as he tried to grasp them. Why was his mind so cloudy? What had happened to him?
His attention snapped to the coffee table directly in front of the couch. Among the dust and debris sat two items that seemed distinctly out of place—or rather, too purposefully placed. A multi-purpose flashlight, the kind that ran on batteries, sat within arm's reach. Ian picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was heavy, well-made, the kind of tool someone would pack for an emergency. He clicked it on and off, confirming it worked, before setting it back down.
Beside it sat an empty can, its label identifying it as Hunt's canned beans. The lid had been peeled back completely, and a dirty spoon lay next to it.
Are these mine? The thought felt absurd even as it formed. Did I eat this last night? Ian studied the can as if it might provide answers. But I'm not even a big fan of beans. He'd always preferred pretty much anything else to beans. The can's presence felt wrong, like finding someone else's belongings in your pocket.
A new thought occurred to him, one that offered a small measure of hope. Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe someone else is here with me.
"Hello?" Ian called out, his voice hoarse from disuse. The word hung in the stale air of the abandoned house, unanswered. "Is there anyone here? Anyone else in this house?"
Silence answered him—heavy, oppressive silence that seemed to press against his eardrums. No footsteps from upstairs, no sounds of movement from other rooms, nothing but the faint creak of the house settling and the whisper of wind against the windows.
Ian's hands clenched into fists against his thighs as a wave of distress washed over him. None of this made sense. Why would he spend the night in this house? Why would he eat canned beans he didn't even like? And if no one else was here, then that meant the empty can was definitely his, which meant... what, exactly?
His memories swirled just out of reach, fragmentary and incomplete. He could remember... something. Work. He'd been coming home from work. That much felt solid, real. But everything after that dissolved into that same impenetrable fog.
Then, like a bolt of lightning splitting the darkness, a memory surfaced—sharp, violent, undeniable.
He'd been walking. The evening air had been cooling, the streetlights just beginning to flicker on. He remembered the sound of his own footsteps on the pavement, the weight of his bag on his shoulder, the exhaustion of a long day settling into his bones. He'd been thinking about dinner, about what he might watch on TV that night, mundane thoughts for what should have been a mundane evening.
Then came the roar of an engine. Ian remembered turning his head, catching a glimpse of a motorcycle accelerating toward him. Two figures—a driver and someone in the backseat. In the fragment of a second, his mind had registered the passenger reaching into their jacket. Even then, some part of him had known, had understood what was about to happen, but his body had been too slow to react.
The passenger had pulled out a gun—black metal gleaming in the streetlight—and raised it with practiced efficiency. Ian had seen the barrel, seen it aim directly at his head. He'd seen the muzzle flash, impossibly bright, searing the image into his retinas.
Then nothing. No sound, no pain, just... nothing. And then he was here, waking up on this couch, in this, what seems like an abandoned house, with no idea how he'd gotten from there to here.
"Fuck," Ian breathed, his voice barely audible. His hands came up to his head, fingers digging into his scalp as if he could physically pull the memories into order. I was shot. Someone shot me in the head. The words repeated in his mind like a mantra of disbelief.
Who would do that? Who would pay someone to kill him? Ian wasn't anyone important—just a regular person with a regular job and a regular life. He had no enemies that he knew of, no one who would want him dead badly enough to hire gunmen. The whole thing felt like something out of a movie, not real life. And yet that image—the barrel of the gun, the flash of the muzzle—remained crystal clear in his mind's eye, more vivid than any of his other fragmented memories.
I should be dead, Ian thought, a chill running down his spine. That kind of shot... there's no way I should have survived. So how the hell am I here?
As he sat there, grappling with the impossible reality of his situation, his feet brushed against something on the floor. Ian looked down and spotted a backpack tucked partially under the couch, as if he—or someone—had shoved it there for safekeeping.
With shaking hands, Ian reached down and pulled the backpack onto his lap. The canvas was worn but sturdy, the kind of military-style pack designed for durability rather than style. He hesitated for just a moment before unzipping it, the metallic sound of the zipper seeming unnaturally loud in the quiet house.
Inside, the first item his fingers encountered was a wallet. Ian pulled it free and opened it, finding the bill compartment completely empty—not a single dollar to his name. The card slots, however, were full of various IDs and cards.
Ian's hands stilled as he pulled out one card in particular, his breath catching in his throat. It was a West Point ID card, the distinctive design immediately recognizable—a unique card identifying cadets of the U.S. Military Academy. The photo showed a young man with a serious expression, clean-cut and professional in his cadet uniform that have an uncanny resemblance to him.
"Ian Weeks," Ian read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. The name on the ID was his name. His exact name and a face that looks like him. But that was impossible because Ian knew—he was absolutely certain—that he had never attended West Point. He'd never been a military cadet, never graduated from any military academy. His last clear memory before the shooting was of leaving his office job, for God's sake. He'd worked in an office, not on a military base.
"Fuck," Ian muttered again, the word carrying all his frustration and confusion. He placed both hands against his head, the ID still gripped in his fingers, and tried to make sense of the senseless. How could he have the same name as a West Point cadet or graduate if this person on the ID had already graduated? Was this some kind of mistake? Had he somehow ended up with someone else's belongings?
But no—he felt an inexplicable certainty that this backpack was his, that these things belonged to him, even if he couldn't remember how or why.
After several long minutes of sitting in stunned silence, Ian forced himself to take a deep breath and continue his investigation. He carefully returned the ID to the wallet and tucked the wallet back into the backpack. Whatever was happening, he needed more information.
The next item he pulled out made his eyebrows rise in surprise: a handgun. The moment his fingers closed around the grip, a name popped into his mind with absolute certainty—SIG Sauer P226. Ian stared at the weapon in his hand, turning it slightly to examine it from different angles. How did he know what this was? He wasn't a gun enthusiast, had never been particularly interested in firearms. He'd never owned a gun, never even held one except maybe once at a range years ago.
Yet here he was, handling the weapon with a confidence that felt simultaneously foreign and natural. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, ejecting the magazine to check its ammunition count, examining the chamber, inspecting the barrel and slide for any signs of damage or wear. The movements came automatically, muscle memory guiding actions his conscious mind didn't remember learning.
Satisfied that the weapon was in good condition and properly maintained, Ian holstered it in his waistband at the small of his back, adjusting it until it sat comfortably. Again, the action felt natural, as if he'd done it a thousand times before.
Returning his attention to the backpack, Ian found three additional magazines for the SIG Sauer, each fully loaded. He packed them carefully back into a side pocket of the bag. Further exploration revealed a canteen—he shook it and heard the slosh of water, maybe half full, a sealed 500ml bottle of water, and two more canned foods similar to the empty one on the table.
The last item in the backpack was a map. Ian unfolded it carefully, smoothing out the creases as he spread it across his lap. It was a detailed road map of Georgia, USA, with various highways, cities, and towns clearly marked. Someone—presumably him—had made several marks on the map in red pen, circling certain locations and drawing routes between them, though without more context, Ian couldn't decipher what they meant.
Georgia, Ian thought. So I'm in Georgia. Or at least, that's where this map says I should be. Though given how little sense anything else made, he wasn't ready to take even that for granted.
Ian sat for a long moment, the map still spread across his lap, trying to piece together the puzzle of his situation. He'd been shot and killed—or should have been killed—in what he remembered as his home city. Now he was apparently in Georgia, in an abandoned house, with a West Point ID bearing his name, military-grade equipment, and skills he shouldn't possess. None of it added up to any rational explanation.
"I don't know what the hell is happening," Ian said aloud, his voice steadier now despite his inner turmoil. His eyes drifted to the window, where he could see the dusty curtains swaying gently as a breeze from outside filtered through some gap in the frame. Morning light—proper daylight, not the dim pre-dawn glow, illuminated the particles of dust floating through the air like tiny stars. "But there's only one way to find out."
With a grunt of effort, Ian pushed himself up from the couch. The wooden floor beneath his feet groaned and creaked, the sound abnormally loud in the stillness of the house. He took a moment to stretch, working out the kinks from sleeping on the old couch, then moved toward one of the newspapers scattered across the floor.
Ian crouched down, his knees protesting slightly, and picked up the nearest paper. The edges were yellowed and brittle, the paper itself slightly damp from the moisture in the air. As he lifted it, his eyes immediately went to the headline, and what he read there made his blood run cold.
"REANIMATED CORPSES ATTACK CITIZENS - AUTHORITIES URGE EVACUATION AS UNEXPLAINED PANDEMIC SPREADS"
"What the fuck is this?" Ian breathed, his voice shaking. "What do you mean by reanimated corpses?"
His eyes scanned down to the article beneath the headline, finding a text box that seemed designed to provide quick, crucial information:
CRITICAL INFORMATION ABOUT THE WILDFIRE VIRUS
The Wildfire virus is a viral disease that resurrects its host after death, transforming the deceased into a disease vector. Infected individuals become extremely aggressive and will attack any living organism on sight. Citizens are urged to:
- Avoid all contact with reanimated corpses - Do NOT allow yourself to be bitten under any circumstances - Seek military or emergency services immediately if exposed - Evacuate to designated safe zones when possible
Ian's hands trembled as he held the newspaper, reading the passage a second time to make sure he'd understood correctly. Zombies. The paper was talking about actual zombies—the dead rising and attacking the living, like something out of a horror movie or video game.
"I must be going crazy," Ian muttered, his voice taking on a slightly hysterical edge. "Zombies? Seriously? I get shot in the head and then wake up in a world with fucking zombies?" He let out a short, bitter laugh that held no humor. "Is this some kind of hell? Or am I actually still alive, just... somewhere else? Some parallel universe where the dead don't stay dead?"
The newspaper slipped from his fingers, fluttering back to the floor. Ian stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, his mind racing to process this impossible information. Everything about his situation, the shooting, waking up in an abandoned house, the military ID, the weapons, and now zombies—it all pointed to something fundamentally wrong with reality itself.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, Ian forced his feet to move. He walked to the front door, his hand hesitating on the doorknob for just a moment before he turned it and pulled. The door opened with a groan of rusty hinges, and Ian stepped out onto the front porch.
The morning air hit him immediately, cooler than he'd expected, crisp and clean in a way that made him think of early autumn. The porch boards beneath his feet were worn and weathered, a few of them sagging slightly under his weight. Paint peeled from the railing in long strips, exposing the gray wood beneath.
But it was the view that truly captured his attention. The house sat in the middle of dense woods, surrounded on all sides by towering trees whose branches intertwined overhead. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in scattered beams, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. The undergrowth was thick with ferns and shrubs, creating a wall of green that made it impossible to see more than thirty or forty feet in any direction.
Birds called to each other in the distance, their songs echoing through the trees. Somewhere nearby, Ian could hear the rustle of leaves as some small animal moved through the underbrush. For a place that was apparently in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, it seemed remarkably peaceful.
Ian stood on that porch for a long moment, just breathing in the forest air and trying to center himself. Then, remembering the map, he turned back to the house and retrieved his backpack from where he'd left it on the couch. He pulled out the map once more and unfolded it on the porch railing, studying it in the better light of day.
The red marks he'd noticed earlier stood out more clearly now. There was a circle around what looked like a small town or community, with a route marked from it heading northeast. Another circle marked a larger city—Atlanta, he realized, recognizing the name and location. Several highways were highlighted, and there were small notes scribbled in the margins, though the handwriting was hurried and difficult to read.
Ian traced his finger along one of the marked routes, trying to figure out where he might be in relation to these landmarks. The house in the woods, the isolation, the early autumn weather—all of it suggested he was somewhere in rural Georgia, but without more specific information, pinpointing his exact location would be difficult.
"Alright," Ian said softly, speaking to himself as he often did when trying to think through a problem. "So here's what I know: I got shot and apparently died. Then I woke up here, in Georgia, in a world where zombies exist. I have a West Point ID with my name on it, weapons I somehow know how to use. And I need to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next."
He looked out at the woods again, then back down at the map, his mind already starting to formulate a plan. Whatever had happened to him, whatever impossible circumstances had brought him to this moment, he was alive now—or alive again—and he intended to stay that way. The first step would be to figure out exactly where he was and what resources were available to him.
Ian folded the map carefully and tucked it into his back pocket where he could access it quickly if needed. He adjusted the SIG Sauer at his waist, making sure it wouldn't slip or shift as he moved. Then he took one last look at the abandoned house that had served as his mysterious shelter for the night.
Time to find out what this new world had in store for him.