The Walking Dead: Survival Code

< Rick Grimes POV >

Flashback—20 days before the fall of Atlanta.

That day began like so many others in King County: a clear sky and the promise of another patrol shift. It didn't seem special, but it was the day that would mark the beginning of my personal hell. Shane Walsh and I, my partner and best friend, received an urgent call over the radio. It was a high-speed chase. Two suspects on the run, both armed.

The dispatcher had a tense tone, and that was enough for us to know that the situation would be serious. Shane was driving, the police car's tires cutting through the asphalt while the sound of the siren tore through the silence of the road.

"Barbed wire at the main entrance," Shane ordered over the radio.

While he was speaking, I was checking my Colt Python. The dry click of cocking the gun seemed to echo louder than the sound of the engine. I felt the cold weight of the metal in my hand, the familiarity of the object. It was my ritual before facing danger.

"They are heading for the west exit!" reported the dispatcher.

"Are the others already positioned?" I asked.

"Confirmed." Block ready.

When we reached the site, the scene was set: barbed wire crossed the road, the last resort to stop the fugitives. Among the police officers present was Leon Basset, who always had an inappropriate joke.

"I bet we're going to end up on TV, huh? Like, in those police chase shows! He laughed, adjusting his position."

I huffed. It wasn't the time for jokes.

"Leon, focus. Make sure your weapon is unlocked. We're not here to become celebrities."

As I positioned myself behind the vehicle, with the Colt Python in hand, the sound of the fugitives' engine grew louder. Each second seemed to carry the weight of an eternity.

The suspects' car appeared on the horizon like a cornered animal, speeding at high speed. As soon as they passed through the barbed wire, the tires burst, and the vehicle rolled over several times before coming to a stop.

The car doors opened abruptly. Two armed men got out and started shooting. One of the shots hit me in the chest. The impact threw me to the ground. For a moment, the world spun, the sounds muffled as if I were underwater. Shane and the others retaliated fiercely.

I realized that the shot had hit my vest. The pain was intense, but I was alive.

"Rick! Are you okay?!" Shane shouted, running towards me.

I nodded, struggling to get up.

"Yes, he took the vest." He said between heavy breaths. "The guy shot at me; can you believe it?" Me in a state of adrenaline, humor, and disbelief... "You don't tell Lori, Shane. Promise. Never."

He looked at me as if he wanted to laugh, but he just nodded in agreement.

It was then that a third man, whom we hadn't noticed, got out of the car and shot. The sound of the shot echoed, and the impact on my left side was different. There was no vest that could cushion that. An unbearable pain took my breath away. My body fell like a dead weight. Before I lost consciousness, I heard Shane scream my name.

...

October 26, 2010

The next sound I remember is the constant beep of a machine, as if it were keeping time while I floated in a limbo between sleep and consciousness. Then the beep stopped. I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling of a hospital. I had no idea how much time had passed.

My throat was dry, my head throbbed, and every movement felt like a monumental effort. I pulled the tubes from my body with difficulty. I stumbled when getting out of bed, my legs unable to support my weight.

I called for a nurse, but silence was the only response. The room was deserted, as if time had stopped. After a while, gathering my strength, I removed the intravenous needle from my wrist, and using the IV stand for support, I walked to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the man reflected. Thick beard, deep and tired eyes, like someone who had fought against death.

I drank tap water, choking from so much thirst. Gradually, strength returned to my muscles, and I began to explore the hospital. Each corridor was empty, the light flickering irregularly. There was a heavy smell of decomposition in the air.

It was then that I saw the door. "Don't open dead inside." The scrawled message and the sound of something scratching behind it made me freeze. I didn't know what was happening, but my instinct told me to get out of there.

Upon leaving the building, the horror continued. Rows of bodies in white bags covered the floor. The world had changed, and I didn't know how or why.

While wandering through the city, I came across an empty park. There, I came across something that seemed straight out of a nightmare: a severely deteriorated woman, dragging herself across the ground. Nothing below her waist remained, just a trail of bones and rotten organs.

I hesitated, unable to look away from that grotesque sight. I grabbed the bike and started pedaling. I was weak, but I needed to get home. When I finally arrived, the emptiness was overwhelming. Lori and Carl weren't there. I searched every room, calling for them, but no one answered.

Outside, I sat on the sidewalk, defeated. That's when I saw a man staggering down the street. I waved, hopeful, but another man appeared and shot him in the head.

Before I could react, I felt a blow to the head.

"Daddy I got this sumbitch! I'm gonna smack him dead!" I, still a bit groggy, i see my son. I tried to focus my vision.

"Carl, I found you," murmured, confused, before fainting.

…

When I opened my eyes, the world was foggy, confusing. The first thing I noticed was that I was tied to a bed. The ropes bit into my skin, and any movement felt futile. A soft sound of running water reached my ears, echoing through the room. It was as if someone were trying to clean something—or themselves.

I looked around and saw a man near the sink, scrubbing his hands with determination. He didn't look at me when he started to speak.

"I changed the bandage on your wound." It was filthy.

My memories were still a whirlwind, but his words began to bring an uncomfortable clarity. Before I could formulate a question, he turned to me.

"What was your injury? Was it a bite?"

I tried to move instinctively, but the restraints kept me trapped. A wave of confusion and distrust was growing inside me.

"Why does this matter?" I retorted, my voice hoarse and hesitant.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he picked up a knife and approached, sitting down beside me. The blade captured the dim light of the room, making the situation even more surreal.

"I want to know what hurt you. And I will find out, even if I have to open you up to do it."

My heart raced. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm.

"Just shot, as far as I know,"

He stared at me for a moment that felt like an eternity before finally putting the knife away. His steady hands began to examine me, as if searching for something specific. After finishing, he murmured:

"If you had been bitten, the fever would have already killed you."

He stepped back and continued:

"My name is Morgan Jones. This is my son, Duane."

I looked to the corner of the room and saw a boy reading comics, his eyes quickly lifting to me before returning to the pages.

I tried to piece together the puzzle in my mind.

"Why did you shoot that man on the street?" I asked.

Morgan turned his face to me, his expression hardening.

"That wasn't a man. He was a walker."

As he spoke, the truth of what was happening began to emerge, as dense as the weight he already felt in his chest. Morgan explained in detail what he knew: the dead were returning, driven by something that no one fully understood. A bite was a death sentence—or worse. The only way to get rid of them was by destroying the brain. And, as he emphasized several times, the sound attracted them like a magnet.

Later, the sound of a car alarm went off, cutting through the oppressive silence. Morgan went to the window, grumbling:

"One of them must have bumped into the car. Damn, I knew I shouldn't have fired that shot earlier."

Duane also looked, but something paralyzed him. His voice came out almost like a whisper:

"Dad, she's here..."

I followed his gaze and saw a woman dressed in white among the undead outside. The pain in the boy's eyes was palpable, and Morgan, noticing this, took him to an improvised bed and comforted him.

"Cry into your pillow, son. Don't make noise."

After Duane calmed down, Morgan explained to me. That woman was his wife, Duane's mother. He recounted how she was bitten, the fever consuming her slowly, until only... that remained.

"She died in the other room on that bed. I should have put her down. I just didn't have it in me. She's the mother of my child." he confessed, his voice breaking.

I wanted to say that I understood. I wanted to say something that would bring comfort, but the truth is that I barely understood what was happening to me. I remained silent, respecting his pain.

...

|October 27, 2010|

The next morning, Morgan decided it was time to teach me how to deal with the Walkers. It wasn't a theoretical conversation or classroom training. It was the raw practice of survival.

We were outside an abandoned house. I was wearing improvised protective gear—a mask covering my face and a firm baseball bat in my hands. It wasn't exactly the weapon I expected to use as a police officer, but it worked. When the Wanderer appeared, moving with that treacherous slowness, there was no room for hesitation. The blow was direct, and the sound of the impact echoed in my head.

Back at the house where Morgan and Duane were, reality hit again, but this time with a different force. Observing the clothes and photos that were missing in our old house, I realized something. It was not just hope. It was certainty. Lori and Carl were alive.

"They're alive," Morgan said, with a conviction that even surprised me.

He raised his eyebrows, curious.

"How do you know?"

"The clothes and the photo albums." Lori took them.

Morgan let out a bitter and melancholic laugh.

"Photo albums. My wife, same thing. There I am packing survival gear; she's grabbing photo albums,"

Duane, who was listening, suggested:

"Maybe they went to that place."

Morgan understood immediately.

"Atlanta. The C.D.C. They said it was a quarantine zone."

The mention of Atlanta sparked a new direction in my plan, but before that, there was another stop. I picked up Morgan and Duane and took them to my old precinct. The place still had a small blessing amidst the chaos: hot water. I opened the shower and explained the independent gas system. It was an almost surreal moment, like a glimpse of normalcy.

After taking a shower, I put on the reserve uniform that I kept in my closet. The shirt, the badge, the sheriff's hat—it was as if I were preparing to face not only the unknown but also to remind myself of who I was.

"It suits you." Morgan commented with a smile.

"If I'm going after my family in a city, it's better to be dressed like an officer." I retorted.

After cleaning ourselves up, we went to the weapons depot. We emptied the place, taking everything we could carry. I handed a rifle to Morgan and told him he could take whatever he wanted. Duane, full of youthful enthusiasm, asked:

"Can I have one too? I'm old enough to shoot now."

Morgan looked at his son, pondering, and replied:

"I will teach you. As soon as I shake off the rust."

I turned to Duane, looking directly into his eyes.

"When you shoot, always be sure."

He nodded, serious.

Before we left, I asked Morgan if they wanted to come with me. I knew it was a difficult choice, but I couldn't help it. He shook his head, refusing.

"I still have matters to resolve," he said, his voice laden with something I didn't need to ask to understand.

I thought about his wife. In the pain he carried. But I kept my thoughts to myself. I just handed him a walkie-talkie and showed him the right frequency.

"I'll broadcast every morning."

We left in separate police cars, but before we got too far, I spotted something that froze my stomach. Leon Basset, my former precinct colleague, was there, on the other side of a fence. Or what was left of it.

"He can't reach us from here." Morgan commented.

"I knew him. I didn't like him, but he didn't deserve this."

Without thinking much, I raised my weapon and shot. The bullet pierced the skull, ending whatever that thing was.

When the silence returned, I stood there for a moment, holding the gun and staring at what the world had become. There was something definitive about that shot. It wasn't just about Leon. It was about the kind of decisions I would have to make from now on. Before leaving, Morgan gives Rick a warning: "They may not seem like much one at a time. But in a group, all riled up and hungry? Man, you watch your ass." Then, he and Morgan drive away from the sheriff's department in opposite directions.

…

I left Morgan and Duane behind with a tightness in my chest, but I knew that each of us had our own path.

Before heading to Atlanta, there was something I needed to do. Something I couldn't get out of my head.

I returned to the park in front of Harrison Memorial Hospital, where it all had begun. The place seemed even more desolate than it had when I woke up, with the wind dragging dead leaves and the heavy silence around. There she was, the wanderer I had encountered before, with only half of her body, dragging herself across the floor.

She was still trying to move, her hands pulling the useless weight of her mutilated body. There was something about her that deeply disturbed me. Maybe it was the persistence in her movements, a kind of dark echo of who she had been.

Approaching, I took off my hat and knelt at a distance.

"I'm sorry." My voice came out low, almost a whisper.

I raised my revolver, trying to keep my hand steady. It wasn't just about ending her; it was about ending the suffering, the indignity of continuing to exist like this. My eyes filled with tears, one of them streaming down my face as I aligned the aim.

I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the shot echoed through the park, followed by an almost absolute silence. I stood there for a few seconds, looking at her, now motionless.

"You deserve rest." I murmured, lowering the weapon.

I put the hat back on, wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt, and turned around, starting my walk to Atlanta.

I didn't know what I would find on the road, but I had to keep going. There were people I loved, and as long as there was a chance to find them, I would do whatever it took.

…

While driving on Highway 85 towards Atlanta, I picked up the radio and transmitted: "This is officer Rick Grimes. I'm heading to Atlanta on Highway 85. Is anyone listening?"

I waited, but the radio remained silent, except for the faint crackle. Somewhere, someone heard my message, but they had no way to respond to me.

As I advanced, the gas tank kept getting lower until the car finally stopped. Without fuel and with no gas station in sight, I had no choice but to continue on foot, carrying the bag of weapons on my back.

After a few hours, I spotted a farm. My heart filled with hope. Maybe there was someone there; maybe they could help me with gasoline. I called out loudly, but no one answered. Cautiously, I approached the house.

Peeking through the window, the sight hit me like a punch. The bodies of the residents were inside, dead in an apparent suicide pact. Flies buzzed around, and the smell was almost unbearable. On the wall, a message written in blood said:

"God forgive us."

I covered my nose with my hand and murmured, barely believing what I saw:

"My God."

No matter how difficult it was, I kept looking for something useful. That's when I found the barn. Inside, there was a horse; it was dehydrated but alive. I took an old bucket and managed to find some water. After feeding it with what was nearby, I started trying to tame it.

"Calm down, boy... I haven't done this in years," I murmured as I approached, trying to gain his trust.

After a few attempts, I managed to mount. It was strange but comforting, almost as if the horse knew I needed it as much as it needed me.

With my sheriff's hat firmly on my head and the bag of weapons on my back, we headed towards Atlanta. As we rode, the city skyline began to emerge. My heart sank when I spotted a message on a sign, written in large, unmistakable letters:

Danger: city infested with the Dead. Do not enter.

I stopped for a moment, staring intently at those words. It was a clear warning, but my mind was on Lori and Carl. Atlanta was my only clue.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my hat, and gave a gentle command to the horse.

"Come on, boy."

I knew I was entering the unknown, but I also knew I couldn't turn back.

…

Arriving in Atlanta was like stepping into a nightmare. The city, which had once been a center of life and movement, was now in ruins. Burned skyscrapers and abandoned cars formed the scene. Everything was deserted, except for the few Solitary Wanderers who roamed the streets.

The horse became agitated upon seeing the creatures, its survival instinct leaving it restless.

"Alright, boy, it's just a few." I said, trying to calm him down while holding the reins tightly.

Guiding him carefully, I explored the streets in search of signs of life. I came across an abandoned military blockade: overturned transport trucks, destroyed barricades, scattered ammunition. It was obvious that the resistance hadn't lasted long.

It was then that I heard the distant sound of a helicopter. My heart raced. Someone was alive. With a glimmer of hope, I tried to follow the sound, leading the horse through the destroyed streets. But the direction I took was the worst possible.

Without realizing it, I ended up walking straight into a horde of zombies. It was as if they had appeared out of nowhere, dozens of them blocking my path, their dead eyes fixed on us. The horse neighed in terror, backing away as the creatures advanced.

"Come on, boy!" I shouted, pulling the reins desperately, but it was too late.

The zombies caught up with him. The horse was brought down under the weight of the dead. I fell to the ground with force, my weapon bag and hat being thrown far away. Still in the impact, I drew my revolver and started shooting at the closest ones, struggling to keep my distance.

As I retreated, the zombies began to devour the horse. The sound was unbearable. Amidst the chaos, I managed to crawl under an abandoned military tank, firing at those who were chasing me. But the situation was rapidly worsening.

The dead were everywhere, surrounding the tank, their putrid hands reaching out towards me. I knew I was cornered. With tears in my eyes and a heavy heart, I drew my revolver again.

"Lori... Carl... I'm sorry..." I murmured, holding the gun against my temple, ready to end it all.

That's when I saw the hatch. An opening under the tank. As a last hope, I pushed my body towards it, ignoring the pain and despair. I climbed with difficulty and locked myself inside the tank, leaving the dead outside, banging and scratching the metal.

Inside, I realized I wasn't alone. A soldier was sitting next to me, but he was no longer human either. Before he could move, I put a bullet in his head, panting and trembling. The shot echoed so loudly that it almost deafened me, but the zombie fell.

I sat there, panting, my head throbbing with the noise. The silence that followed was as heavy as the smell of gunpowder. He was alive, but trapped.

The silence was broken by an unexpected voice on the tank's radio.

 "Hey. Hey you, dumbass. You in the tank. Cozy in there?"

The voice was sarcastic, almost mocking, but it brought something I hadn't felt in a long time: a glimmer of hope.