The world swam into focus, not with the gentle awakening of a new day, but with a jarring jolt. Jonathan found himself sprawled on the grimy asphalt, a dull ache radiating through his body. Around him, the city was a tapestry of chaos, rendered in shades of green and grotesque. Disfigured figures shuffled and groaned, their forms twisted into nightmarish parodies of humanity. Yet, an odd sense of detachment settled over him. He wasn't worried. The usual human instinct for panic was curiously absent, replaced by a dull thrumming in his temples. He pushed himself up, each movement accompanied by a symphony of clicks and groans. His limbs felt stiff, unyielding as if made of ancient wood. A faint cracking sound echoed with every flex of his muscles. His mind, usually a bustling hub of thoughts, was now a placid, numb expanse. A quiet emptiness resided where his memories should have been. Suddenly, a piercing screech tore through the air, followed by the sickening crunch of metal.

Eleanor rummaged through a small, worn backpack that was in the van. She pulled out a crumpled, empty can, her face falling. "Hu-ngry?" Jonathan rasped, the word a struggle against the blood that constantly threatened to fill his mouth. He didn't wait for an answer. He pushed open the van door and stepped out. The streets were a tapestry of green and decay, the shuffling forms of the infected a constant, unsettling backdrop. He moved among them, a silent sentinel, his own kind parting before him as if sensing an invisible authority. He could tell that they revered him, that he was different and maybe they knew too. One place was his mind, to get Eleanor there and get the cure. He found a derelict convenience store, its front window shattered, revealing shelves picked clean. But in the back, behind a counter overturned by some forgotten struggle, and then a rotten body. He found a small cache of canned goods: peaches, beans, and a single can of chunky soup. He gathered them a

They stepped out of the shopping mall in new clothes. Jonathan picked a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt to cover his bite. The Greens ambled past them, their vacant eyes fixed on unseen horrors. Jonathan and Eleanor walked hand in hand, a silent covenant between them. A curious pattern emerged: whenever Eleanor inadvertently stepped too far from Jonathan, a Green would instinctively lurch towards her, its guttural growl a chilling warning. But a simple touch from Jonathan, a reassuring grip of her hand, and the green would halt, its predatory intent dissolving into an aimless shuffle. Jonathan smiled. And then he would caution himself to stop. He was a walking dead and he had to be humane. He had to find a cure. Eleanor, catching on, began to test the boundaries, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She’d step away, watch a green approach, then quickly grasp Jonathan’s hand, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. They found a car, surprisingly intact, parked near a

"Run!" Jonathan screamed. Gunfire erupted, chipping away at the walls and shattering equipment. He realized with chilling clarity that these soldiers weren't interested in Eleanor's capture, or even control. They were here to kill. Anyone. Everyone. Maybe him. He reckoned they weren't from the President. This was Tate’s doing. The lab was a sprawling, multi-level space, a labyrinth of intricate machinery and shattered glass that flew in all directions as they were being shot at. They crawled, ducked, and scrambled, the air thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and ozone. Jonathan instinctively wanted to summon the greens, to turn the tide, but there were none close enough to heed his silent call. After a while, there was silence, followed by matchings on the platform. The soldiers were in. "Give her up! Let's live!" Doc McStuffins shrieked as a soldier's boot stomped nearby. "No!" Jonathan roared. He turned to the huddled group. "Stay here!" he rasped. Then, with a burst of