After realizing where I was—and what was happening—I did what any sane person would do.
I panicked.
Not just because I woke up in a stranger's body. Not just because I was apparently now inside the Walking Dead universe. But because I was infected with the virus. That one inevitable truth of this world: if you die, you turn.
And I wasn't ready for that.
I was just a 17-year-old computer science student. Smart, sure. Skilled in martial arts, yeah. But I had no one. No friends. No family. No girlfriend. No legacy.
Just me, my screen, and the things I used to escape.
And The Walking Dead? It was one of those things. I'd stopped watching after Glenn died. He was my favorite. The underdog who got the girl—Maggie, who I still rank as the second most beautiful character in the entire franchise. First place? Alicia Clark from the California spin-off. But I stopped watching that one halfway through Season 3.
Now I'm rambling just to stop the panic from clawing at me again.
Eventually, after lying in bed for two hours, numb and soaked in anxiety, I dragged myself to the computer again.
The internet still worked. So did the power. That meant the outbreak was fresh—days old.
I didn't know what to search for anymore, so I started going through the files of the guy whose body I was in.
Photos. Games. Homework. Porn—obviously.
Then I found a folder labeled Personal Stuff.
Inside, I discovered his name: Leo Spencer.
Parents: John and Mary Spencer.
His license showed he was 16. Born the same day as me. A month from now would've been his birthday. I let that sink in.
We had the same first name.
Leo Spencer.
He died and I woke up.
And no, I don't feel guilty.
Do I feel bad for him? Sure.
But guilty? Hell no.
He wasn't going to make it in this world. I will.
After staring blankly at the screen for far too long, I finally forced myself to act. It was time to search the rest of the house—for food, weapons, and answers.
But first: defense.
In the corner of the room, there was only one possible weapon. A wooden baseball bat. Better than nothing.
My theory?
Dean saw his zombified parents, panicked, and ran. He locked himself in his room, probably fell backward in a rush, hit the dresser corner, and bled out.
Then I woke up.
I approached the door, unlocked it, and took a deep breath.
"Come on, Leo," I muttered. "Just one or two zombies. Easy."
I opened the door slowly, silently. The hallway was quiet. All doors closed.
Creeping toward the staircase, I gripped the bat and tapped it against the banister—three times.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Seconds later, I heard it: moaning. Shuffling.
Two sets of footsteps.
I retreated into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar just enough to watch.
And soon, they came.
The first was a man. Pale, blood-smeared, blank-eyed. His face—his former face—was in the family photos. The father.
Followed by the mother.
Seeing them up close… almost made me puke.
The smell. The rotting skin. The snarled teeth. The dead, twitchy gaze.
It was worse than any show, movie, or game.
"Stay calm," I whispered to myself. "You know what to do. Aim for the head."
As the father limped farther ahead, I sprang the door open and dashed forward.
The mother was closer.
One swing.
CRACK.
Her skull shattered like wet clay. The bat snapped in half.
"Shit!"
The father lunged. I stumbled backward, pinned against the wall.
I waited—let him close in.
Then I stepped to the side, grabbed the broken bat with both hands, and jammed it into the back of his skull.
It sank in like butter.
Blood sprayed across my face.
"Argh! Shit!"
He dropped, lifeless, and I bolted to the bathroom, frantically wiping the gore from my eyes and mouth.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
I wasn't done.
Another groan.
I turned—and saw a third zombie shambling into the room. How the hell had I missed this one?
I ducked behind the bathroom door. Through the mirror, I watched him creep closer.
The moment he passed me—
BAM!
I grabbed his head and slammed it into the sink.
Again.
And again.
Until the porcelain cracked and his skull turned to mush.
He crumpled to the floor.
I stood there, heaving. The smell hit me like a punch to the throat.
Vomit-inducing.
And vomit I did—over the sink, the corpse, myself.
Ten minutes of retching.
Then it happened.
I looked at the bodies—the shattered skulls, the blank stares, the dead faces—and something inside me clicked.
A memory rose. Not of Dean. Not of this house.
Of pain. Of fear. Of weakness.
Of the soft kid I used to be.
Not anymore.
The boy who once lived in this body?
He's gone.
Dead in that bedroom with his parents.
I'm Leo Spencer now.
The boy is dead.
Let the man be born.
I showered. Found clothes that barely fit in the parents' room, but it would do.
Looking in the mirror, I studied the reflection.
That same familiar face: young Jon Snow.
Sharp jawline, pale skin, thick dark curls.
But leaner. Stronger.
Ripped, actually.
The kid had great genetics. Bonus points: down below didn't disappoint either.
Still weird.
Whatever.
I got dressed and armed myself with a kitchen knife, then began searching every room.
Three zombies. That was it. No more threats.
I exhaled with relief—no more bloodshed for now.
Inventory:
32 bottles of water
7 cans of soda
7 cans of canned food
Cheese, 2 packets of bread, peanut butter, chips
200g pork, 250g chicken
Lighter, flashlight, water filter, notebook, pen, knife
No car in the garage. Probably gone with the parents before they turned. I wasn't ready to head outside just yet.
I cooked the pizza, devoured it with soda, and let the weight of the day settle into my bones.
Exhaustion. Mental and physical.
Back upstairs, I locked everything. Windows. Doors.
Sat on the bed then closed my eyes.
Sleep took me in seconds.