Samuel woke up with his teeth already clenched.
Not the slow, foggy kind of waking where reality slid into place gently. This was abrupt. Sharp. His eyes opened and awareness snapped in instantly, like someone had flipped on a light inside his skull.
The first thing he registered was brightness.
Sunlight filtered through red-and-white striped canvas above him, shifting lazily in the breeze. The second thing was the smell—fresh coffee, baked bread, hot pavement.
Definitely not his apartment. This wasn't the familiar mix of detergent and city air that usually greeted him in the mornings.
His jaw tightened further.
He was sitting upright against a low brick wall outside a café. One arm rested beside him on rough concrete. His fingers curled slowly against the grit of it, pressing down as if to confirm it was solid ground.
He inhaled through his nose. Breath in.
Breath out.
Where the hell am I?
There was no pounding headache. No dizziness. No drugged haze. His thoughts were clear. Too clear.
He pushed himself to his feet in one smooth motion, more out of irritation than panic. His body responded immediately. There was no stiffness and no hesitation in his movements.
He rose faster than he expected, knees locking into place with clean precision. For a
fraction of a second he felt off-balance—not from weakness, just… miscalculation. As if he had expected resistance that never came.
He steadied himself without stumbling. This wasn't his apartment.
This wasn't his street.
Brick storefronts lined both sides of the road. A chalkboard sign outside the café advertised seasonal lattes in looping handwriting. A bookstore sat two doors down. Students walked past in clusters, backpacks slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, coffee cups in hand. A car drove slowly through the intersection ahead, bass thudding faintly through its speakers.
There was no visible threat.
No memory of how he had gotten here.
His brow furrowed as he scanned the area again, slower this time. The morning felt ordinary. Unremarkable. The kind of early weekday hour where everyone moved with half- awake purpose.
Ordinary unsettled him more than chaos would have.
If this were a kidnapping, there would be signs. If it were an accident, there would be confusion bleeding. If it were a dream, it would feel unstable.
This felt grounded. Real.
He turned toward the café window and caught his reflection between painted lettering and taped flyers.
It was him.
Same face. Same structure. Same faint crease between his eyebrows when he concentrated.
But something was different.
He leaned slightly closer to the glass.
His skin looked clearer. His posture straighter without effort. His eyes sharper somehow, as if someone had adjusted the contrast on him.
He ran a hand back through his hair, fingers combing slowly from forehead to crown. He didn't really need to that but he needed something to ground himself.
His breathing remained even, but frustration coiled under his ribs. He tried to reconstruct the last thing he remembered.
His apartment. His bed. The dim glow of his phone screen. Silence. Then nothing.
He checked his hands. No tremor.
He shifted his shoulders. No ache. He rolled his neck once. No strain. There was no pain.
No explanation.
He began analyzing his surroundings.
There were no visible signs of civil unrest.
There were no emergency broadcasts echoing from storefront televisions. There were no police cruisers tearing down the street.
There were no frantic faces. Just students.
He glanced at the cluster nearest him and noticed sweatshirts printed with the same block letters: WGSU.
Then—
He turned too quickly.
His shoulder collided with someone smaller. A soft gasp.
"Oh—sorry!"
Books slipped from her grasp. A paper coffee cup tilted, lid bending.
His hands moved before conscious thought caught up. He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her with firm, reflexive pressure. He wasn't rough. His fingers spread automatically, anchoring her balance.
The coffee steadied. The books stayed in her arms. He looked down.
And the world shifted.
Blonde hair pulled back loosely into a low ponytail, strands falling free around her temples. Pale skin flushed faintly from the morning chill. Green eyes widening in surprise before softening with embarrassment.
A familiar face. Vaguely familiar.
She laughed lightly, the sound small and apologetic. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking." Her voice.
His grip loosened slowly, but he didn't step back immediately. He knew her.
He didn't know how yet.
His gaze dropped briefly to her sweatshirt. WGSU.
"You go there?" he asked.
His tone came out even, almost detached. There was a faint dryness to it. Underneath it, curiosity sharpened.
She blinked, as if assessing him for sarcasm, then smiled slightly. "Yeah. I do. West Georgia State University."
The name settled heavily in his chest. West Georgia State University?
Georgia.
His stomach tightened faintly.
The thought formed half a second before he consciously acknowledged it. "Beth! We're going to be late!"
Two girls stood near the crosswalk, waving at her, half laughing. Beth.
The name and the face felt so familiar to him.
She shifted her weight awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The movement was quick, self-conscious. He noticed the way her fingers lingered briefly near her cheek before dropping. Noticed the small apologetic dip of her chin.
"Sorry again," she said again, softer. "I really have to go."
She tugged the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her wrists, hugging her books closer as if bracing against something unseen.
For one second, he almost stopped her. He didn't know what he would have said. Her name?
A question?
Something to keep her standing there another thirty seconds? He didn't.
She stepped back, offered one last polite smile, then turned and jogged toward her friends. They immediately brought her into conversation, their voices overlapping in casual morning chaos.
He watched her walk away.
He noted the direction she headed. The building she seemed to be moving toward. The way she glanced down at her phone briefly while crossing the street.
Beth.
Georgia.
The pieces aligned.
The farm.
The barn.
The suicide attempt in the bathroom. The prison.
The hospital.
The Walking Dead.
His pulse dropped instead of spiking.
He turned slowly in place, surveying the street again, but now through a different lens. Beth Greene.
This was Georgia before the outbreak.
His jaw tightened so sharply it sent a dull ache up toward his temple. Of all worlds.
Of all timelines.
A zombie apocalypse.
There was no visible infection yet. No staggering corpses.
No emergency alerts.
But he remembered how it unfolded. The confusion. The disbelief. The denial. He was here before society fractured.
His hand lifted unconsciously to his mouth, thumb brushing along his lower lip as he thought.
This was impossible.
But impossibility did not change what stood in front of him.
He dragged his gaze back toward the direction Beth had gone. She had looked alive. Normal. Unaware.
She had no idea what the future held.
She died from what he could remember from the show. The thought irritated him more than it should have.
She had potential.
She had survived longer than a lot of people. She could have been more.
He inhaled slowly again, forcing his thoughts into order. What did he have in this world?
He slid his hands into his jacket pockets searching for anything that would help him and felt the shape of a wallet.
He pulled it out.
A Georgia driver's license.
Samuel Daystar.
His face stared back at him from the ID photo. He put the license back and looked some more. No cash.
No additional cards beyond an ID, a debit and a basic credit card. He searched the rest of his pockets and pulled out a phone next. The screen lit immediately with no passcode.
Maybe it has clues to what the hell was going on. No messages.
No photos.
No call history. Shit.
It looked as though the device had been activated that morning. A notification banner sat at the top of the screen.
Banking Alert.
He opened it.
An amount of $5,741,000 was deposited in his account. He stared at the number for a moment.
His expression did not change other than a slight eyebrow raise. Five million dollars.
He's never seen that much money before. He smirked.
If the money was real, this would make all this easier. Next, he went through the phone contacts.
There was only one contact. Marcus Daystar.
His brother's name.
His pulse shifted then. Marcus.
If Marcus was here—
Then this was not random.
He pressed call and the phone rang.
He lifted it to his ear, eyes still scanning the street.
The line continued ringing and he waited for someone to answer.
**
Marcus woke to the sound of wind moving through leaves and birdsong.
Not traffic. Not the low mechanical hum of a city waking up. Just wind — steady and unhurried — combing through branches overhead.
His eyes opened slowly.
Blue sky stretched above him in clean, uninterrupted expanse. Sunlight filtered through a canopy of green leaves, flickering across his vision in shifting patterns. For a second he simply lay there, staring upward, watching light and shadow move across each other like something distant and detached from him.
The ground beneath him was uneven. Firm. Cool through the thin fabric of his shirt. Grass.
He registered the smell next. Earth. Hay. Livestock. The air was thick with the scent of soil and open land, sharp and honest in a way city air never was.
He blinked once. Twice.
He did not sit up immediately. Instead, he listened.
Birds chattered somewhere nearby. Insects hummed in the tall grass. Farther off, he thought he heard the faint clank of metal against metal — rhythmic.
Everything was calm.
Peaceful.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows slowly. Dry grass crunched under his palms. A few brittle leaves clung to his sleeve. He brushed them off absently, gaze scanning outward as he sat upright fully.
Open land rolled out in front of him.
A wide pasture stretched beyond a wooden fence line, grass swaying gently in the breeze. To the right stood a barn — large, worn at the edges where paint had peeled away over time. The doors were open. The inside of it shadowed.
Ahead of him, maybe a few hundred yards away, stood a farmhouse. White siding. Wide porch. Rocking chairs. Windows reflecting the morning light.
The property looked maintained and well lived in. This place was definitely not abandoned.
"This…" Marcus muttered under his breath, voice low and steady, "…isn't right." His heart beat faster as he felt panic slowly start to rise in his chest.
He took measured breaths, trying to calm himself down.
He planted one hand against the ground and stood, brushing grass from the back of his jeans. He rolled his shoulders once. His body felt oddly awake—energized. There was a quick responsiveness in his body that he noticed only because it felt… adjusted.
He shifted his weight forward slightly as if expecting stiffness from sleeping on the ground for however long.
But there was none.
He flexed his fingers once. Then twice. No ache.
No strain.
He took a slow breath in through his nose and turned in a slow circle, surveying the full landscape.
Fence lines. Tree clusters. Open sky. The farmhouse again.
Something about the layout tugged faintly at his memory, but it remained just out of reach.
Movement near the barn caught his attention.
An older man stepped into view, carrying what looked like a metal bucket. He wore a wide- brimmed hat and moved with the unhurried pace of someone used to manual work. A woman followed him shortly after, wiping her hands on a dish towel, speaking to him about something Marcus couldn't quite hear from this distance.
Marcus's eyes narrowed slightly. The familiarity tugged at his mind. He began walking.
Not toward the house. Not yet.
Just along the edge of the field, boots pressing into soft soil, testing the ground. He walked as a person naturally does when trying to adapt themselves to their surroundings — not
rushing, not wandering aimlessly. He kept his shoulders relaxed, gaze forward, movements cautious.
The older man set the bucket down near a fence post and adjusted his hat.
Strangely, the man looked that old man from the show the Walking Dead, Marcus thought. Hershel was his name.
He stopped walking.
The barn. The farmhouse. The pasture. The fencing. Hershel's farm.
This looked like the farm in the show, too. His chest tightened faintly.
Georgia.
Rural land.
Hershel.
This was the farm from The Walking Dead. He exhaled slowly.
He wasn't dreaming.
Or if he was, it was the most detailed dream he had ever experienced.
The woman beside Hershel — Hershel's wife, he thought distantly — reached out to hand him something. They spoke briefly. Hershel nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
This was all normal.
The wife was alive.
All unaware.
This was before the outbreak. Marcus made a decision.
He adjusted his jacket subtly, then walked toward them at an even pace. Not too fast but without hesitation.
As he approached the fence line, Hershel noticed him first.
The older man straightened slightly, eyes narrowing as he assessed Marcus in that particular way seasoned landowners did — cautious, but not aggressive.
"Morning," Marcus called out, keeping his tone calm and neutral.
Hershel rested one hand on the top rail of the fence. "Morning," he replied. His accent was soft but firm. "You lost?"
Marcus allowed a faint, polite smile. "Possibly. I was walking and ended up farther out than I expected."
Which wasn't technically untrue.
Hershel studied him for a moment longer. "You from around here?"
Marcus shook his head once. "Not exactly."
Hershell's wife stepped slightly behind Hershel, observing quietly but she didn't look afraid.
The farm looked peaceful in the morning light. Chickens pecked near a coop off to the side. The barn doors creaked faintly as wind moved through them. A tractor sat parked beside the house.
It was serene.
But all that was temporary.
Marcus felt the weight of that knowledge settle in his chest.
"Well," Hershel said after a moment, "you're on private land. But you don't look like trouble."
Marcus inclined his head slightly. "I appreciate that."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then added, "You have a beautiful property."
Hershel's posture shifted almost subtly at that — pride touching his features. "Been in the family a long time."
Marcus nodded once. He wanted to say more. To warn them.
To tell them what was coming. But he didn't.
Information without proof would sound like insanity. And insanity would limit his access to things.
So he stepped back slightly instead. "I won't take up your time. Just needed to get my bearings."
Hershel gave him one last assessing look, then nodded. "Stay safe out there." Marcus almost smiled at that.
"You too," he replied quietly.
He turned and walked away from the fence line.
He moved toward a nearby tree at the edge of the field — the same one he must have woken beneath. Its shade offered a small pocket of privacy from the house and barn.
As he walked, his mind worked. Hershel was alive.
His wife was alive.
The farm was intact.
There are no zombies, yet.
This was before.
Before walkers overran Atlanta. Before the barn filled with the dead.
He slid his hands into his jacket pockets absently, thinking. His fingers brushed against leather.
He paused beneath the tree and pulled the object free. A wallet.
He flipped it open.
Georgia driver's license. Marcus Daystar.
His face stared back at him from the ID. Address listed in Georgia. He checked the inside slots.
ID.
Debit card.
Credit card.
No cash.
He slid the wallet back into his pocket slowly.
His other hand searched the opposite pocket and found a phone. He pulled it out and pressed the side button.
The screen lit up immediately. No passcode.
The wallpaper was the basic default background. A notification sat at the top.
Banking Alert.
He opened it.
An amount of $5,741,000 was sent to your account.
He stared at the number.
Wind shifted the leaves above him, dappling his face in moving light. Five million dollars.
In a world about to collapse.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose. "That's…" he murmured softly to himself. He didn't finish the sentence.
It wasn't excitement he felt. This was all intentional.
Someone — or something — had placed him here prepared. Prepared for what?
He wasn't sure.
The phone vibrated suddenly in his hand.
The sharp buzz felt louder in the stillness of the field. He glanced down at the screen.
Incoming Call.
Samuel Daystar.
His brows drew together. Samuel.
If Samuel was here too—
Then this wasn't coincidence. The phone continued vibrating. Marcus lifted it to his ear.
"Hello?"
His tone was calm.