The Bible mentioned that, in the last days, during the great revival, the dead would rise. Many took it as metaphor; others as a prophecy too distant to worry about. But regardless of the interpretation, the fact remained that those words had somehow foreseen what was about to happen...
The dead truly came back to life. Yes… but not led by God, nor driven by any promise of redemption. They returned with nothing but a blind, insatiable hunger for the living, dragging their rotting bodies through a world that no longer looked the same.
And that was how the apocalypse came to Earth...
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Georgia, United States.
The Georgia countryside seemed to have been swallowed by silence ever since the world itself had been swallowed by the end of days.
The road leading to the Greene farm was narrow, flanked by wooden fences and fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. Miles of dry earth, uneven pastures, and dense woods gave the sensation of complete isolation—a place so far from civilization that even the dead took longer to show up there.
At the top of a small hill, the property revealed itself amid the faded green of late summer: a barn, a fenced pasture, and higher up, the white house facing the path.
The barn looked as though it had been defeated by time and weather. It was entirely clad in rusted metal sheets, their colors ranging from reddish-brown to dull gray. In several places, makeshift patches were visible—plates of different sizes and shapes, slapped on without much pattern, as if the owner had used whatever scrap metal was available over the years to plug holes. The metal roof was equally corroded and uneven, with lighter patches where the sun beat hardest or where newer sheets had been hastily fitted.
The lower part of the structure was made of aged wood, almost gray, with warped, cracked boards that creaked at the slightest breeze. Two low pens extended in front, one on each side, built from wide, poorly aligned slats. Tall weeds growing all around made it clear the place had not been tended to in quite some time.
In the center of the facade, a large reinforced wooden door dominated the entrance, and above it was a high opening, likely used for storing hay bales. That opening was sheltered by a small triangular wooden overhang, crooked and weathered, adding to the feeling of abandonment. Behind the barn, a dense wall of trees formed a natural barrier, creating a stark contrast between the vibrant green of the vegetation and the weary look of the building.
Following the path that climbed the hill stood the main house: a large rural Victorian-style residence, painted entirely white, with decorative details that conveyed the quiet elegance of a bygone era. The facade was wide and symmetrical, marked by a porch that wrapped around nearly the entire front and both sides of the house. Supported by numerous slender, straight columns, the porch gave the place a welcoming air, yet also a sense of calm watchfulness, as if someone might appear there at any moment to survey the surrounding landscape.
The roof, in a greenish-gray tone, featured multiple slopes and gables, with the central pediment standing out: a triangular structure adorned with discreet ornamentation typical of the Victorian style. Beneath it was a small upper balcony, supported by even thinner columns and protected by a white railing. The balcony jutted slightly over the facade, seeming the perfect spot to watch the horizon on clear mornings.
At least three tall brick chimneys, reddish in color, rose against the impeccable white of the walls, reinforcing the image of an old home that had known many cold nights warmed by fireplaces. The tall, narrow windows, arranged in perfect symmetry, completed the classic look and conveyed the atmosphere of a countryside house that held more stories than it let on.
Inside the main house, the heat from the wood-burning stove filled the kitchen. Pots bubbled, and the scent of simple spices spread through the room, bringing a sense of normalcy that felt out of place with what lay outside.
There were two women in the kitchen.
The first stood near the counter, stirring a pot with calm, focused movements. She was an extremely beautiful young woman. Standing, she appeared just over five feet three inches tall, with a slender yet firm body. Her shoulders were narrow and well-aligned, supporting long, graceful arms with subtle muscles that suggested strength without sacrificing delicacy. Her naturally slim, defined waist flowed into slightly narrow hips, forming an elegant and harmonious silhouette. Her medium-sized breasts created a soft curve beneath the neckline of the white blouse she wore, while her jeans perfectly hugged her rounded backside and thick, firm thighs, accentuating her figure even more.
Though her physique was attractive on its own, her face was even more striking. It had a balanced oval shape, with a gently tapered jawline and high cheekbones that highlighted her expression. Her fair skin showed no imperfections, almost glowing under the kitchen light. Her large, expressive green eyes were the kind that drew attention immediately. Her thick, well-shaped eyebrows further intensified her gaze. Her nose was straight, perfectly proportionioned, and elegantly refined. Her lips were naturally full, with a beautiful, symmetrical shape. Her dark brown hair, cut short, fell just below her ears, giving her a modern yet soft appearance.
The other woman was chopping vegetables beside her. She was a middle-aged woman with simple blonde hair tied back and blue eyes that still held a gentle sparkle despite evident weariness. Hers was a quiet, understated beauty—not defined by youth, but by the life she carried.
Her body was slim and unpretentious, shaped by years of rural routine. She wore a light-colored blouse, slightly wrinkled from use, and worn jeans that fit practically rather than stylishly. Low boots suited for daily work and an apron tied at the waist completed her look: simple, functional, yet with a warm presence that matched the kitchen.
The repetitive sound of the knife hitting the cutting board filled the gaps between their words.
"He still hasn't woken up?" the younger woman asked without looking up from the pot. Her voice was calm but laced with equal parts curiosity and concern.
The middle-aged woman let out a soft sigh, rolling her shoulders as if still trying to make sense of the situation.
"Not yet… He seems okay, but he still hasn't woken up…" She adjusted a vegetable before resuming her chopping. "It's been three days since Otis brought him here…"
The younger woman finally looked away from the pot, resting the wooden spoon on the edge. "Daddy said his body didn't have anything serious beyond the fever and exhaustion. That he just needs time to recover… I just think it's strange that so much time has passed and he hasn't shown any sign of waking up."
The older woman kept chopping, but her gaze faltered for a moment, as if weighing something she didn't want to admit aloud.
"Yeah… it is strange," she murmured in a low, almost resigned tone. "But with everything going on out there, I don't think anything should surprise us anymore…"
The younger woman lightly furrowed her brow, turning her attention back to the pot—not to cook, but to think. She gently bit her lower lip.
"I think I'll go upstairs and check on him…" she said after a few seconds of silence. "Just to see how he's doing."
"Take another damp cloth," the older woman suggested, tilting her head toward the basin of cold water. "If his fever spikes again, it'll be good to put it on his forehead…"
"Yes." The younger woman grabbed one of the cloths, wrung it out firmly, and draped it over her shoulder while picking up the basin and calmly heading upstairs.
Silence returned to the kitchen, filled only by the steady bubbling of the pot and the warm scent of spices. The older woman continued preparing lunch…
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Upstairs, the wooden floor creaked faintly as a breeze passed through the hallway. The upper-floor windows were closed, yet the air still carried a fresh scent, as if someone had opened the house that very morning to let the country breeze circulate through the rooms.
The room where the young man lay was simple but carefully tended. The walls were painted white, already yellowed with age, and a small window let in soft beams of light that cut through the nearly still air. The large bed, with its old wooden frame, occupied the main corner of the room. The mattress was firm, covered with clean sheets and a thick blanket folded down to the young man's waist.
The pillows were plump, slightly dented, as if someone had adjusted his position more than once over the past few days. On the nightstand, a half-empty glass of water and a bowl with a soaked cloth showed that someone had been checking on him regularly, changing the compress to help bring down the fever.
The morning light fell directly on the young man's face.
He lay still, breathing slowly, with a calm and silent expression.
If described in one word: handsome.
In two: incredibly handsome.
His face, partially lit by the morning light, possessed such impeccable balance it seemed almost unreal. His features were soft yet firm—the exact blend of delicacy and masculinity. His cheekbones were perfectly defined, his chin strong and sharply outlined, and his jawline, sculpted with near-artistic precision, created a harmony few men could ever hope to achieve.
His skin was fair but carried a natural warmth, a healthy glow that contrasted with the fever he had endured over the past few days. His hair, dark as a starless night, fell in slightly wavy, tousled strands across his forehead, as if it had dried haphazardly after rain. Yet every strand seemed exactly where it belonged. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his closed eyelids. In repose, his fire-red lips curved gently.
But what truly stunned—what would make anyone pause for a moment upon entering the room—was the body beneath the sheets.
The blankets were folded at his waist, fully revealing his torso. It was a sculpted body, firm as stone, a celestial masterpiece without artificial excess. His broad chest rose and fell with slow, deep breaths, highlighting the dense, perfectly defined muscles: solid pecs, sharply outlined collarbones, and imposing shoulders. His arms, resting at his sides, were powerful and muscular, with subtle veins tracing down his forearms before vanishing beneath the skin. His hands were large and strong, with long, elegant fingers. His abdomen formed a rigorously defined pattern, each muscle etched as if tensed even in sleep. Near his waist, the slight curve of his hips reinforced the breathtaking symmetry of his physique…
The first thing he felt as he returned to his senses and emerged from unconsciousness was a merciless headache. It was as if something inside his skull was trying to settle into a space that wasn't quite large enough.
He took a deep breath.
The air came in cold and sharp, carrying the scent of aged wood, homemade remedies, and something soft… perhaps dried flowers. The second detail: the rough sheet against his bare chest. The third: the light. A warm glow piercing his eyelids, insistent, almost irritating…
Wait… since when were sensations this vivid? He didn't remember them being so sharp, so good that his senses captured everything and his mind processed the environment—even in that drowsy state—almost instantly.
Jason slowly opened his honey-colored eyes.
The first thing he saw was the simple wooden ceiling. For a moment, his brain didn't connect it to any familiar place.
…There were no sirens, no smoke, no metallic crash still echoing in his mind.
And then the flood came.
A flash.
The steering wheel turning on its own. Glass shattering. The sudden swerve on the road. The distorted screech of twisting, crushing metal.
Another flash.
His own body yanked forward, then sideways. Lights streaking like white blurs. The sensation of the world turning liquid—slipping, spinning, dissolving.
Then silence.
He frowned, trying to grasp a thread of memory that slipped through his fingers. It came in disconnected flashes, like dreams fading upon waking… but the reality behind them was too intense to ignore.
He vaguely remembered a voice in total darkness—deep, distant, echoing inside his own mind—telling him he had died. And that before being reborn, he had to spin a roulette wheel with three arrows. That would decide everything: the world he would live in again and two unique benefits for his new beginning.
The details were blurred… but the results remained etched with terrifying clarity.
The world chosen by the roulette was The Walking Dead. Not a specific time—just "at some point."
A brutal temporal lottery.
And the benefits…
They were [Perfect Condition] and [Perfect Mastery].
The information about both was burned into his mind as if it had always been there.
[Perfect Condition] transformed him into something… superior. Literally superior to his own species. His capabilities surpassed natural limits: superhuman strength, speed beyond human, absurdly fast reflexes, stamina far above normal, and razor-sharp mental clarity. All without effort, intense training, or maintenance. It was as if his body simply operated at its absolute peak all the time. Insane as that benefit was, for him, [Perfect Mastery] was even better. It granted him complete mastery over any field he chose to study. Instinctive, prodigious understanding. Where someone else might take years to become an expert in medicine, engineering, or any other discipline… he would take days, maybe hours. And he wouldn't just reach the highest level his species had ever achieved—he could surpass it with time…
He had hit the jackpot with those two benefits.
Especially considering the world he had been reborn into.
Jason lay still for a few seconds as the realization sank in. Anyone else would be losing their mind knowing they had been reborn into a zombie apocalypse world, but he felt no panic, no confusion.
He inhaled again.
The cold air filled his lungs as if traveling a perfectly designed path. In that moment, he felt he could easily hold his breath for hours… But that wasn't his focus. Every sensory particle connected to his perception cleanly, crystal-clear, as if his brain had been polished until it gleamed.
This couldn't possibly be a dream…
He had been reborn.
Not metaphorically… not as some post-accident delusion.
It was real, solid, tangible—as concrete as the rough texture of the sheet against his chest.
The reason he wasn't panicking was that he had always been a calm, rational person to the point of irritating college classmates during heated debates. But now, with his already calm and logical mindset elevated to another level, his mental clarity was so vast he could spend hours exploring his own cognition as if leafing through a brand-new manual…
Complex neuropsychology questions and theories that once required days of review now appeared complete, structured, with sources, counterarguments, and ramifications. He could visualize entire pages of books he had studied in college—every line, every footnote, even those he had skimmed at the time. It was like a living archive being flipped through directly in his mind…
He blinked once, methodically, and let the realization settle fully:
I really can recite all those books backward and forward.
The thought made him let out a short, almost amused sigh. The soft vibration of that contained laugh rippled through his chiseled chest, prompting him at last to slide a hand under the sheet and touch his own abdomen. His fingers glided over warm, firm skin, finding dense, symmetrical muscles that felt naturally tensed, as if molded for perfect function.
He pressed lightly, feeling the strength, the resilience, the vigor.
The comment slipped out before he could think:
"Didn't even have to hit the gym for a body like this…"
The tone was low, ironic, almost casual—and that ease, that calm in the face of the impossible, was what truly surprised him. He no longer felt truly human. Not the way he remembered. He was a "corrected" version of himself, as if someone had fine-tuned every physical and mental aspect to an ideal limit: perfect reflexes, superhuman strength, flawless motor coordination, enhanced agility, accelerated healing capable of recovering from fatal injuries in days, complete absence of fatigue, super senses compared to a normal human. He was practically the "perfect human" thanks to [Perfect Condition], and he possessed terrifying potential to learn everything humanity had ever discovered across millennia through [Perfect Mastery]…
He slowly turned his head toward the window bathed in the weak morning sun.
A strange feeling stirred in his chest. He had never imagined a TV series could be a "real world"…
The Walking Dead…
Unfortunately, he had only watched the first two seasons, but that was enough to grasp the essentials: that world followed the law of the fittest. No mercy, no guarantees.
And even without having seen the rest, he knew some spoilers—enough to know that, in time, the dead ceased to be the biggest problem.
The living were far, far worse.
For an ordinary person, that world would be cruel. Brutal. An inevitable hell.
But… and this was the detail that made it all almost ironic…
He was no longer ordinary.
Though there was the natural concern of being in a world he knew but without any foreknowledge of future events—and thus without the typical advantage of a rebirth—he refused to let it shake him. In the end, he had more than enough advantages to survive easily in that place. If he still ended up dying… then he deserved to be killed with a block of tofu.
At that moment, he blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. His super hearing picked up a faint, dry creak from the first stair being stepped on.
Someone was coming up the stairs.
There was no hostility in the sound of their footsteps. Still, his entire body went on alert—not the frantic alertness of someone scared, but the cold, almost clinical readiness of a predator fully awake. His muscles primed themselves, his heartbeat remained steady, his mind sharp as a blade.
The visitor paused in front of the door for a moment.
Jason stayed perfectly still.
Then the doorknob turned with a click.
The door opened slowly, and light from the hallway sliced into the room.
The person stepped in and froze the next instant.
It was a young woman holding a metal basin and a clean cloth draped over her shoulder. Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves around her face—soft, delicate, yet alert… and her green eyes widened with genuine surprise upon seeing him awake, alive, sitting up, staring at her.
Jason recognized her instantly.
Maggie Greene.
Exactly as he remembered from the show—very beautiful and, if he were asked, incredibly hot…
She took a hesitant step inside, her expression flickering between shock and relief.
"You…" she breathed, as if choosing her words carefully. "You're finally awake…"
Jason blinked slowly.
Her voice—soft yet firm—was identical to the actress's. And that only made everything feel even more real.
"Where am I?" he asked, his voice deep, low, a little hoarse from days without speaking. "And… who are you?"
Inside, he already had a pretty good idea of what was going on. From the way she had appeared and her identical looks to season two of the show—which he had only watched a few episodes of—it was almost certain he was at the Greene farm in rural Georgia. Terrible luck: precisely the last season he had seen before stopping watching.
Still, he had to play the part of someone who had just woken up with no context. He couldn't just say he recognized her because she was a character from a TV show he had watched. That would sound insane and probably scare her… and he had no intention of ruining the goodwill of the people who had just saved him. If he had woken up somewhere else, he'd likely have been eaten by a walker by now…
Maggie moistened her lips, took a deep breath, and gave a small smile that was half concern, half sympathy.
"I'm Maggie. Maggie Greene…" She took another step forward, still holding the basin, studying him as if confirming he was truly conscious. "You're at my family's farm…"
She paused briefly, as if recalling the moment they found his body on the road.
"Otis found you passed out near the north fence. You had a high fever and were in bad shape. We brought you here…" Her gaze softened. "And you've been out for almost three days…"
Jason nodded slowly, absorbing the information… though in the background, his mind was already analyzing everything: location, timeline, the group's status, farm dynamics, house layout. Had Rick's group arrived yet? From the lack of noise inside and outside the house, it seemed highly unlikely…
Though his mind was racing with these thoughts, he didn't forget to respond to the girl standing in front of him:
"Thank you… for finding me. And taking care of me."
Maggie gave a gentle smile—one of those half-smiles that only lifted one corner of her mouth.
"No need to thank us. We weren't gonna leave you out there like that."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Otis wouldn't have slept knowing he left a man to die on the road. My daddy wouldn't either."
"Still, I have to thank you. If you hadn't found me, by now… I'd probably be dead. So… thank you very much," Jason said calmly and politely.
Hearing his words, Maggie looked back at him. There was something in her eyes—a strange mix of caution, relief, and something he couldn't quite place. Jason didn't know exactly what was going through her mind, and the silence that followed only made it more obvious.
After a few seconds, Maggie finally spoke.
"Do you remember anything? Your name, maybe?"
Hearing her question, he answered calmly:
"Jason… My name is Jason Vellgrace. You can just call me Jason…"
"Jason." Maggie repeated the name to confirm, as one does with any stranger who has just woken up after three days unconscious. "Okay. At least you remember your name—that's a good sign…"
She set the basin on the small dresser beside the bed, adjusting the damp cloth with quick, efficient, practiced movements.
"You were in pretty bad shape when Daddy examined you," she continued, taking another step closer to the bed. "Dehydrated, feverish… looked exhausted. Like you'd been on the road for days without sleep."
She tilted her head slightly, looking him up and down.
"But you look… a lot better now," she added, almost surprised. "Better than I expected, actually."
Jason simply gave a short nod, keeping his demeanor neutral.
"…Actually, I'm starving."
"That's normal. You haven't eaten in three days," Maggie replied in a soft, almost comforting tone.
"Lucky we had some IV fluids to keep you hydrated. Besides the hunger… are you feeling okay?" She tilted her head slightly, offering a small smile. "No bad headache? Blurry vision?"
Jason slowly shook his head.
"I'm fine. Better than fine, actually. Feels like I slept for a whole week after running a marathon…"
Maggie let out a short, spontaneous chuckle.
"Pretty much. Daddy said he'd never seen anyone burn through that much fever and exhaustion so fast. Like you really did run a marathon before passing out…" She cut herself off mid-sentence, her eyes involuntarily dropping to his firm, defined torso for just a second before snapping back to his face. The flush that rose to her cheeks was impossible to hide.
Jason noticed. Of course he noticed. His new senses caught everything: the almost imperceptible quickening of her heartbeat, the slight increase in her breathing… and the fact that she definitely found him attractive.
Maggie cleared her throat, visibly forcing herself back into a more professional stance.
"I… I'll go get Daddy. He's a veterinarian, but he's the closest thing to a doctor we have around here now. Just so he can take a quick look at you, okay?"
Jason nodded gently, leaning back a little more against the pillow even though he didn't really need to.
"That's fine," he said, his voice low and calm. "Go ahead and get your dad. I really do feel great."
Maggie studied his face for another second, as if checking whether that was true—because in her world, people claiming they were "great" after nearly dying were rarely a good sign. But there was no tremor in his voice, no confusion in his eyes, none of the heavy exhaustion she recognized so quickly…
"Okay," she agreed, letting out a small breath through her nose. "I'll be right back."
But she didn't leave yet.
She lingered for another moment, her eyes scanning the room as if making sure she hadn't left anything out of place or that he might try to get up while she was gone. Her fingers tapped briefly on the side of the basin—an automatic habit when she was thinking.
"Just… don't try to get up until I'm back, alright?" she said finally, meeting his eyes again. "The last thing I need is to ask Otis to carry you again. He won't admit it, but his back's been killing him since October."
Jason almost smiled.
"I promise I'll stay put."
Her expression softened with a subtle relief.
"Good. That makes my life—and Daddy's—a lot easier. He'll want to ask you some questions when he gets here, so try not to scare him by jumping out of bed like nothing happened."
"No scares," Jason assured her with that near-clinical calm. "I'll cooperate with everything."
"Good," she said with a short nod of approval.
She started to turn toward the door but paused halfway and glanced back once more.
"And… Jason?"
He looked up, attentive.
"If you remember anything else about what happened before you passed out… tell my daddy. It helps us know if there's something out there we should be worried about."
Jason inclined his head respectfully.
"Will do. I'll tell him everything I know."
Maggie held his gaze for a brief moment, assessing his sincerity. He was being honest. She saw it. Satisfied, she slowly opened the door.
"Alright. I'll go get Daddy."
Then she left, closing the door almost completely, letting the hallway light narrow as the sound of her footsteps quickly descended the stairs, calling for Hershel....