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In the suburbs of Atlanta—once a quiet, uneventful place—chaos had taken over. People screamed and ran in all directions. Cars sped down the roads, crashing into one another. And among the madness, pale-skinned, dead-eyed figures shambled through the streets like ghosts come to life.
But this story doesn't start out there.
It starts in a quiet, luxurious house that somehow still stood untouched.
Inside, in one of the many rooms, a young teenager lay unconscious on the hardwood floor. A nasty cut ran across his forehead, leaking blood onto the floor beneath him, forming a small, growing puddle.
Then—a groan.
The boy stirred.
POV
When I wake up, I keep my eyes shut for a moment. My head is pounding—like someone's hammering my skull from the inside—and I feel... weak. Sickly weak. Worse than the worst flu I've ever had.
I try to sit up, but something hard and cold presses against my back.
Wait... am I on the floor?
Frowning, I raise a shaky hand to my forehead—only to jerk it back with a sharp hiss.
"Shit," I mutter hoarsely as my eyes snap open, pain shooting through my head. I force myself to sit up, but the room spins violently, and I almost black out again. Breathing deep, I manage to steady myself and lean against something solid—a dresser, I think.
I blink a few times.
This is definitely not my bedroom. This place looks... expensive. Like one of those rooms rich teenagers flex online, the kind I'd drool over on Pinterest but never imagine living in.
"What the hell...?" I whisper.
Something wet trickles down my temple and into my eye. Carefully, I touch it again and stare at the crimson smudge now staining my fingertips.
Blood.
A chill races down my spine. Panic claws at my chest, but I shove it down.
"Okay," I say out loud, my voice rough. "That explains the pain."
Speaking helps. It keeps the fear at bay—barely.
I stare at my hand again. Wait… something's off. These hands—they're soft. Too soft. No scars, no callouses. Not the hands I've known all my life.
My pulse quickens. With effort, I pull myself up using the dresser. I spot a smear of blood on the corner.
"That's probably where I hit my head."
Staggering, I move toward the open door that leads to a bathroom. Every step feels like dragging weights. I clutch the wall for support.
Inside, the first thing I see is the mirror—and the reflection staring back at me makes my breath catch.
That's not me.
Staring back at me is a young man—pale skin, dark curls hanging over his forehead, deep brown eyes, sharp jawline. It's a familiar face, but not mine.
It's Jon Snow.
Or at least, Kit Harington's younger face—when he played Jon in the early seasons of Game of Thrones. I look like a teenage version of him. Same brooding features, same haunted stare. Only this version has a slightly more muscular frame. Broader shoulders. Like a stronger version of the character.
I stagger back from the mirror.
"What the hell?" I gasp, touching my cheek, my chin. The skin is real. The mirror is cold. The pain in my head? All very, very real.
This isn't a dream.
I'm in someone else's body. Jon Snow's. Or someone who looks exactly like him.
"No... Stay calm." I shake my head. "Treat the wound first. Panic later."
I start rifling through the bathroom drawers until I find a small red first aid kit. Jackpot.
First things first—wash the blood off. I lean over the sink and let the cold water run. The moment it hits the cut, I bite down a scream. It stings like hell, but I endure it. Pain confirms it: this is real.
Bandages, antiseptic, alcohol—check. I clean the wound, patch it up the best I can, and lean against the counter, panting.
It still hurts. But it's manageable.
Eventually, I limp back into the bedroom and collapse into the chair in front of the desk. There's a computer here. An old one, thick and boxy, like something from the early 2000s.
I press the power button.
Whirrrrrrr...
The thing boots up with the speed of a dying snail.
While it loads, I walk over to the window and peek outside.
The street is eerily empty—except for one figure limping slowly down the middle of the road. I narrow my eyes.
The guy's covered in blood, hunched over, twitching unnaturally.
Then I hear a loud clatter—metal hitting pavement.
The figure suddenly jerks its head toward the sound, then begins shuffling in that direction. As it turns, I catch a glimpse of its face.
Pale. Bloodied. Lifeless eyes. Jaw slack.
A walking corpse.
"A... zombie?" I whisper.
My breath catches in my throat as the undead creature stumbles out of view.
Stunned, I turn back toward the desk.
The computer's finally finished loading.
I move the mouse, open the browser, and check the system date.
August 24, 2010.
I freeze.
No way.
I click into the news tab and scan headlines from around the world.
"Mass Panic in Tokyo,"
"Violent Attacks in Rio de Janeiro,"
"Chaos in Paris Streets,"
"CDC Investigating Cases in New York."
Every major country is reporting outbreaks. People attacking others. Symptoms include pale skin, aggression, and cannibalistic behavior.
It's a virus. Or so they say.
But I know better.
Zombies. 2010. Atlanta.
I swallow hard, already feeling the answer clawing at the back of my brain.
With a trembling hand, I type in one last thing.
Current location: Atlanta, Georgia.
And there it is.
Of all the possible worlds I could've ended up in, why the hell did it have to be The Walking Dead?
I slump back into the chair, my heart pounding.
"Son of a bit—"
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If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Patreon for early access, exclusive chapters, and more:
patreon.com/Jayzero