Here is the translation for Chapter 4. I've kept the gritty, survivalist tone while highlighting the growing bond and tension between Jon and Rick.
Chapter 4: The Rules of the New World
I woke to the sound of movement downstairs.
The dawn light was just beginning to filter through the windows. I sat up in bed, disoriented for a moment before remembering where I was. Rick's house. King County. Morgan and Duane.
Rick was no longer in the other bed. His backpack was still there, so he hadn't left. He had probably gone downstairs with Morgan.
I got up, put on my shoes, and carefully headed down the stairs. Voices were coming from the living room.
"...I don't understand," Rick was saying. "How can a disease make the dead rise? It makes no scientific sense."
"It doesn't," Morgan replied. "But it's what's happening. At first, we thought it was just the sickness—that if you avoided getting bitten, you'd be fine. But then we saw that all the dead were rising. Bitten or not."
"All of them?" Rick asked, and I could hear the disbelief in his voice.
"Everyone," Morgan confirmed. "A man died in our original camp. Heart attack. Natural. Five minutes later, he stood up and tried to eat his wife."
I entered the living room. Morgan and Rick were sitting on the sofa, and Duane was on the floor playing with some toy soldiers—probably Carl's. Rick looked pale.
"Morning," I said.
"Jon," Rick greeted. "Morgan was explaining the rules of this new world to me."
Morgan nodded at me.
"Sit down, kid. This affects you too."
I sat in a chair as Morgan continued.
"There are certain things you need to know if you're going to survive out there," he said. "First rule: we're all infected."
"What?" I said, feigning surprise. I already knew this, but Jon wasn't supposed to.
"We all carry whatever causes this," Morgan explained. "It doesn't matter how you die. If your brain is intact when you go, you come back. Bite, gunshot, heart attack, whatever. You die, you turn."
Rick ran a hand over his face.
"So there's no avoiding it. Eventually..."
"Eventually, we all become those things," Morgan finished. "Unless someone destroys the brain first. That's why..." he paused, glancing at Duane. "That's why when someone dies, you have to make sure they don't come back. A shot to the head, a knife to the brain, whatever it takes. It's the last thing you can do for someone. Give them peace."
Silence filled the room. The reality of it all was overwhelming. Even for me, having seen it on TV, I felt the weight of those words.
"How do you know all this?" Rick finally asked.
Morgan sighed.
"We learned the hard way. We saw people die and come back. At first, when it happened with the heart attack man, we thought it was a fluke. But then it happened again. And again. Eventually, we saw the pattern."
"And the government?" Rick asked. "The military? There has to be someone working on this, looking for a cure."
"If there is, they haven't shared it with us," Morgan said. "The military tried to contain the outbreak at first. They set up quarantine zones, safe zones. Atlanta was one. But it collapsed. They all collapsed. Too many people, not enough resources. And one infected person in a crowded camp... well, you can imagine."
Rick stood up and walked to the window, peering out carefully from the side of the curtain.
"Shane," he muttered. "He said he was going to Atlanta. If the safe zone collapsed..."
"It didn't collapse completely until a few days ago," Morgan said. "If your friend got there early, he probably made it out before the total breakdown. A lot of people did. They set up camps on the outskirts. The one I told you about, the quarry, is one of them."
"How many people do you think are left?" I asked. "In the world, I mean."
Morgan shook his head.
"I don't know. Thousands, maybe. Tens of thousands if we're lucky. But compared to what we were... it's next to nothing."
"And how do they survive?" Rick asked. "No electricity, no running water, no food in the stores..."
"They adapt," Morgan said simply. "They find canned food, they hunt, they fish. Some have started small gardens, though it takes time for them to grow. Water is trickier. Rivers, lakes, rainwater. You have to boil it first."
I thought about my powers. I could make gardens grow in hours instead of months. But Morgan didn't know that, and I wasn't ready to reveal it yet.
"The walkers," Rick said, using the term I had introduced. "Do they have patterns? Predictable behaviors?"
"They're drawn to sound and movement," Morgan explained. "Especially loud noises. A gunshot can draw every one of them for miles. That's why we try not to shoot unless it's absolutely necessary."
"And what about smell?" Rick asked. "Can they smell us?"
"I think so," Morgan said. "Or maybe they just recognize the smell of something living versus something dead. I've seen survivors cover themselves in walker guts to mask their scent. It works, but it's foul."
Rick winced.
"I bet."
"How fast are they?" I asked. "I've seen some that move pretty slow."
"Most are slow," Morgan confirmed. "But some—the fresh ones—can move faster. Almost a jog. Over time they slow down as they rot. But never assume you can outrun them easily. Especially if there are a lot of them."
"A lot?" Rick asked.
"Herds," Morgan said darkly. "Sometimes they group up. Hundreds, thousands of them moving together. If they see you, if they hear you, they all come for you. There's no escaping a herd."
Duane had stopped playing and was listening, his eyes wide. Morgan noticed and softened his tone.
"But if you're smart, if you're careful, you can avoid them. Right, son?"
Duane nodded.
"Dad says you have to be like a mouse. Quiet and small."
Morgan smiled sadly and ruffled his son's hair.
"That's right."
Rick sat back down on the sofa.
"You say you saw Shane. When was that?"
"About two weeks ago," Morgan said. "He passed through here on his way to Atlanta. He had your family with him—your wife and son. There were other people from town too. They formed a convoy."
"How were they?" Rick asked, his voice tight. "Lori and Carl?"
"Scared, like everyone," Morgan said. "But alive. Your wife is strong. And your son... he looks a lot like you."
Rick closed his eyes for a moment, struggling with his emotions.
"Shane told them I was dead, didn't he?"
Morgan nodded slowly.
"I'm sorry, Rick. But yeah. He said you were shot, that the hospital was bombed during the initial strike. He said he saw you die."
"The hospital wasn't bombed," I said. "I was there. It was evacuated, but not bombed."
"Shane must have thought it would be," Morgan said. "The military firebombed parts of Atlanta trying to control the outbreak. Maybe he thought the hospital would be in the blast zone."
Rick nodded, processing this.
"Shane did the right thing. He protected my family when I couldn't. He gave them a chance to survive."
But I could see the pain in his eyes. The fact that his family believed him dead, that they had spent weeks mourning...
"When you find them, when they see you're alive," Morgan said, "it'll be a miracle for them, Rick. Hold onto that."
We spent the next hour discussing practical details. Morgan drew us a rough map of the area, showing where he'd seen herds, which roads were blocked, and where we might find resources.
"The police station has an armory," he said, marking a spot. "Shane and his men took most of it, but there's likely something left. Guns, ammo, vests. There's a shower there, too. Running water from a roof tank. You'll probably want to clean up before you reunite with your family."
Rick touched his beard, which had grown considerably during his coma.
"A shower and a shave sound good right about now."
"There's something else you need to know," Morgan said, his tone turning serious. "About people."
"What about them?" I asked.
"The dead aren't the only danger out there," Morgan said. "People... some people become worse than the walkers. No law, no consequences—they do terrible things. They steal, they kill, and worse. There are groups that prey on other survivors, taking their supplies, their women..."
He stopped, looking at Duane again.
"The point is," he continued, "don't trust anyone automatically. Even people who seem friendly might have bad intentions. Protect what you have. Protect those you love."
Rick and I nodded. I knew this was true. The Claimers, the Saviors, Terminus... there were so many dangerous groups in the future. But there were also good people. The trick was telling them apart.
The sun was fully up now. Morgan stood and went to the window, looking out carefully.
"There's one out there," he said softly. "She comes every morning."
Rick went to the window. I followed. In the street, moving slowly, was a female walker. She wore a nightgown and slippers. Her face was pale, stained with old blood. But even in her state, you could see she had once been beautiful.
Morgan looked at her with an expression of absolute agony.
"That's my wife," he said simply.
The silence that followed was heavy. Duane had gone very still on the floor, refusing to look toward the window.
"I'm sorry," Rick said softly.
"She was bitten early on," Morgan explained, never taking his eyes off her. "I tried to save her, but the infection... it went too fast. She died in my arms." He paused. "I should have... I should have ended it then. But I couldn't. And now she comes here every morning, like she remembers this house. Like she remembers living here."
"Why don't you—?" Rick started, but stopped himself.
"Why don't I kill her?" Morgan finished. "I've tried. God knows I've tried. But every time I have her in my sights, every time I'm about to pull the trigger... I can't. Because it's still her. Her face, her body. I know what made her 'her' is gone, but..." his voice broke. "I just can't."
Rick put a hand on Morgan's shoulder.
"No one should have to do that. No one should have to kill someone they love."
"In this world," Morgan said, "sometimes it's the kindest thing you can do. But I'm a coward. I can't give her that peace."
The walker passed in front of the house, her hands reaching for nothing, and continued down the street. Morgan watched until she was out of sight.
"We need to leave," he finally said. "Duane and I. This town has too many ghosts. We'll head north, look for somewhere safer."
"Come with us," Rick said suddenly. "To the camp. Safety in numbers."
Morgan considered it, then shook his head.
"I appreciate the offer, Rick. But you're going to find your family. We need to find our own way. Besides," he looked at Duane, "I need to teach my son to survive in this world. I can't do that hiding in a large camp."
Rick looked like he wanted to argue but nodded in understanding.
"If you change your mind, the camp at the quarry. Northeast of Atlanta. Ask for Shane Walsh or Rick Grimes."
"I will," Morgan promised.
After breakfast—more canned food, shared equally—we prepared to leave. Morgan gave us a walkie-talkie.
"I have another," he said. "The range probably isn't great, but if you're in trouble and I'm close, I might be able to help. Turn it on every day at dawn. Channel six."
"Thank you, Morgan," Rick said, shaking his hand. "For everything. For looking after me, for the info... for being a good man in a world gone to hell."
Morgan smiled slightly.
"Take care of yourselves. Both of you. And Rick... when you find your family, hold them. Don't let go. Because you never know how much time you'll have left with them."
We said goodbye to Duane as well, who made us promise to kill "lots of walkers." He had the resilience of a child, but I could see the pain in his eyes when he looked at his father.
We got into the police truck and Rick started the engine. Before we left, he looked at the map Morgan had drawn for us.
"First stop, the police station," he said. "Then we head straight for that quarry."
"Rick," I said as we drove through the empty streets of King County. "About Shane..."
"What about him?"
"He's my uncle," I said. "But he's also your best friend. When he sees you—when he realizes you're alive—I don't know how he's going to react."
Rick glanced at me.
"Shane will be happy to see me. We're like brothers, Jon. Known each other since high school. He's protected my family. When he sees me, it'll be..."
"And if it's not that simple?" I interrupted. "He told your family you were dead. He's been taking care of Lori and Carl. He's been the man of the house. And then suddenly, you're back..."
Rick frowned.
"What are you trying to say?"
"Just... be careful," I said. "People change in extreme situations. Even good people. And Shane... I know he's good, he's my uncle and I love him. But this world brings out the worst in people sometimes."
Rick was silent for a moment, processing my words.
"Shane would never hurt me," he finally said. "And I would never hurt him. We're family. You and me, Shane, Lori, Carl... we're all family. And family takes care of each other."
I nodded, though the knot in my stomach didn't loosen. I knew what was coming. Shane's jealousy. His obsession with Lori. His eventual attempt to kill Rick.
But in this world, in this timeline, maybe I could prevent it. Maybe if Shane saw that Rick and I were together—that I was his nephew and I was on Rick's side—he would think twice before doing something stupid.
Maybe I could save him from becoming the villain I knew he could be.
The police station appeared ahead of us. It was a two-story building with reinforced windows and a large parking lot. A few abandoned cruisers sat outside.
Rick parked near the entrance and we stepped out carefully. No walkers were visible, but that didn't mean they weren't nearby.
The front door was unlocked. Rick entered first, shotgun ready. I followed with my pistol, though I still didn't really know how to use it properly.
The interior was a mess. Papers everywhere, desks overturned, bloodstains on the floor. But no bodies. No walkers.
"Clear," Rick said after checking the main rooms.
We found the armory in the back. Like Morgan said, it was mostly empty. But there were a few things left: a box of pistol ammo, another shotgun, some tactical knives, and three more bulletproof vests.
"Take one," Rick said, handing me a vest. "Over your clothes."
I put it on. It was heavy and awkward, but I felt safer with it.
Rick found a battery-powered electric razor and shaved in front of a cracked mirror. The change was dramatic. Without the beard, he looked much younger—more like the Rick from the show's beginning.
We also found the showers, just as Morgan promised. Water from the roof tank was still flowing—cold, but clean.
"Five minutes each," Rick said. "We don't want to linger here too long."
I showered fast, washing away days of sweat and grime. Feeling clean again was a luxury I'd almost forgotten. When I came out, Rick went in.
While I waited, I explored more of the station. In the sheriff's office, I found police uniforms. I took one that looked like my size—cargo pants and a dark shirt. It wasn't a full uniform, but it was better than what I was wearing.
I also found something more interesting: maps. Detailed maps of the county, Georgia, and the surrounding areas. I studied them, memorizing routes and locations that might be useful later.
One of the maps had red marks on it. Quarantine zones, evacuation routes, military checkpoints. Someone had been tracking the outbreak's progress. Atlanta was circled completely in red with a large X through it. "LOST - DO NOT APPROACH" it said in bold letters.
But there were other marks. Small camps, shelters—places someone had considered safe. I took the map. It could be useful.
When Rick stepped out of the shower, he looked like a new man. Clean, shaved, wearing a full police uniform he'd found in his locker.
"Almost feels like being a sheriff again," he said, adjusting his belt.
"You look good," I said honestly. "Professional. People will trust you."
Rick smiled.
"That's the idea."
We loaded everything we could carry into the truck. Ammo, extra weapons, the vests, bottled water we found in a vending machine, even some protein bars from someone's desk.
Before we left, Rick stood in front of the station and looked at the building.
"I used to come here every day," he said. "It was my life. To serve and protect. To keep order." He shook his head. "Feels like another life."
"You can still serve and protect," I said. "It's just different now. You protect your family, your group. You keep order in the camp. It's the same mission—the world just changed."
Rick looked at me with something like pride.
"You're wise for your age, Jon. Where'd you learn to think like that?"
"Reading a lot," I lied. "And my uncle Shane always said you have to adapt or die."
"Shane was always good for advice," Rick said. "Let's go. It's time to find my family."
We got into the truck and Rick pulled out Morgan's map. He traced a route with his finger.
"If we take this highway, we bypass Atlanta entirely. It takes us northeast. We should see signs for the quarry."
"How long do you think it'll take?"
"A couple of hours if we don't hit trouble. Longer if we do."
He started the engine and we pulled out of King County. In the rearview mirror, I saw the town disappear into the distance. Somewhere back there, Morgan and Duane were preparing for their own journey.
I wondered if I'd see them again. In the show, Morgan reappeared much later, traumatized and broken. Maybe in this timeline, I could help him too. Maybe I could prevent him from losing his mind to grief.
But first, I had to get to the camp. I had to meet Shane and the rest of the group.
I had to start changing the future.
The road was surprisingly clear at first. We passed a few abandoned cars, but Rick maneuvered around them easily. There were occasional walkers, but they were scattered and easy to avoid.
"This is going too well," I said after half an hour of quiet driving.
Rick looked at me.
"Don't say that. You'll jinx us."
He was right.
Five minutes later, we rounded a bend and hit a massive blockade. There had been an accident—or several. Cars were piled on top of each other, blocking both lanes. And around the cars, moving through the wreckage...
Walkers. Dozens of them.
"Crap," Rick muttered, slamming on the brakes.
The walkers turned toward the sound of the engine. And they began to walk toward us.
"Do we turn back?" I asked.
Rick checked the map quickly.
"It would set us back hours. There's another route but it goes all the way around..." He looked at the blockade, then at the truck. "Hold on."
"What? Rick, you can't—"
He floored it.
The truck lunged forward. Rick steered toward the edge of the road, where there was a small gap between the blockade and the trees. The truck hit the shoulder, bouncing violently, and for a second I thought we'd flip.
But Rick kept control. The truck tilted dangerously, the tires on one side nearly lifting off the ground, but it stayed upright. We scraped past the blocked cars—so close I could hear the walkers thudding against the windows.
One clung to the side mirror. Its dead face pressed against the glass, jaw snapping. Rick yanked the wheel sharply and the walker was thrown off.
Then we were on the other side. The truck slammed back onto the pavement and Rick accelerated, leaving the walkers behind.
"That was incredible!" I shouted, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
Rick was breathing hard, his knuckles white on the wheel.
"That was stupid," he said. "We could have flipped. Could have gotten stuck."
"But it didn't happen," I said, smiling. "You made it."
Rick looked at me and, despite himself, he smiled too.
"Yeah. I guess I did."
We kept driving, more careful now. The sun was high in the sky when Rick pointed to a turnoff.
"There," he said. "That road goes northeast. It should lead us to the quarry area."
We took the turn. The road was narrower, surrounded by woods on both sides. There were fewer abandoned cars here, fewer walkers. It was almost peaceful.
After twenty minutes, Rick slowed down.
"We should be close," he said. "Morgan said it was northeast of Atlanta, an abandoned quarry. It's gotta be around here."
We continued slowly, both of us scanning the woods for signs of life. Human life.
And then I saw it. Smoke. Campfire smoke rising above the trees in the distance.
"Rick," I said, pointing. "Look."
Rick saw it and his face lit up.
"A campfire. There are people there."
He sped up, following the path toward the smoke. My heart was pounding. This was it. The camp. Shane. Lori. Carl. Glenn. Dale. Andrea. All of them.
The road opened into a clearing, and there it was.