Chapter 1 – "Echoes of a Forgotten Past Life"
March 5, 2025 — 177 days before Day OneEli — Sumterville, FloridaThe bell rang like it always did—too loud, too shrill, bouncing off cinderblock walls and sleepy teenagers.Eli Miller watched his third-period history class pour out into the hallway, a stream of backpacks, earbuds, and half-muttered goodbyes. Someone shouted about prom tickets. Someone else complained about the Wi-Fi. Life kept pretending it was simple.But today, Eli's room didn't empty the way it usually did.Kooper Hayes—fifteen, sharp-eyed, always looking like he was solving a puzzle nobody else noticed—paused at the door with his notebook tucked under his arm. Kooper didn't ask questions for attention. He asked them like he was building a map.Reagan Brooks lingered too, cross necklace glinting when he shifted. Fourteen. Calm. The kid had the kind of quiet you got from watching adults fall apart and deciding you wouldn't be one of them.Rhett Day leaned against a desk like it belonged to him—fifteen, grin like trouble from ear to ear, hands that never stopped fidgeting with something mechanical. A torn piece of rubber band snapped between his fingers. He'd already broken two pencils today and looked offended that the world didn't provide sturdier supplies.And Trace Day—twenty-one, technically a student aide now, still hanging around the school like he couldn't quite let go of the place that used to be home—stood by the window with a folded schedule in his hands. Trace was older than the rest, but he carried himself like someone who'd learned early that being the "big brother" type didn't come with training wheels."You four got a club meeting I forgot about?" Eli asked, trying for casualness.Kooper cleared his throat. "Mr. Miller… you said we could ask you anything during planning if it was about… real life stuff."Eli's smile softened. "That's what I said."Reagan glanced at the open door like he expected the hallway to listen. "My mom says there's a sickness in Texas. Like… a weird one."Rhett snorted. "Like the 'my cousin's friend saw a zombie' kind of weird?"Trace shot Rhett a look that said don't make it a joke. Then to Eli: "Some of the coaches were talking. Hospital cases. Aggression, fevers. People… acting wrong."Kooper's pencil tapped once, twice. "If something like that spreads—like a real crisis—what's the first thing that collapses? Supply? Law? Communication?"Eli held their faces in his gaze. Four kids. Four different kinds of fear.His chest tightened because his mind answered Kooper instantly—with pictures instead of words.Gridlocked highways. Sirens fading. Phones going dead. Parents turning into strangers.He forced himself back into the room."The first thing that collapses," Eli said slowly, "is trust. People stop believing anyone is in control. After that… everything becomes improvisation."Reagan swallowed. "Can you improvise your way out of the end of the world?"Eli almost laughed—almost. "Let's start smaller. You can improvise your way through a hard week. A hard month. And you can keep people together while you do it."Kooper nodded like he'd been waiting for permission to think like that.Trace looked like he was filing the answer away for later.Rhett's grin flickered, then returned, forced. "So basically… group project rules.""Exactly," Eli said. "Except if you fail, you don't get a B or C. You get eaten."Rhett barked a laugh. Reagan didn't. Kooper didn't. Trace didn't.Eli hated that."Alright," Eli said, brightening his tone on purpose. "Get out of here. Go be teenagers. Kooper, stop trying to run FEMA before you can drive. Reagan, you're not responsible for the whole world. Rhett—""Yeah, yeah, don't pick fights with the vending machine," Rhett said, already backing toward the door.Trace hung back a moment longer. "Coach Miller… you ever get that feeling like… you've done something before? Like déjà vu but… heavier?"Eli's mouth went dry."Sometimes," he said, careful.Trace nodded once, as if that was all he needed. Then he left.The door shut.The silence that followed felt wrong.Eli exhaled, leaning against the edge of his desk. He was twenty-eight years old, a former special operations medic who had patched up soldiers in places he still saw behind his eyes when sleep got thin. Now he taught AP U.S. History and ninth-grade World, coached debate, JV basketball, JV baseball, and sometimes broke up hallway fights about TikTok drama.It wasn't a bad trade. He loved teaching with every fiber of his being.He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and thumbprinted it open.March 5, 2025.The lockscreen photo was Grayson at Disney—six years old, front teeth missing, pirate hat crooked over his curls, Grace laughing in the background, sun catching her hair.Sometimes he had to remind himself that this was real. That this was now.Because in the dreams, it wasn't 2025. And he wasn't a teacher.In the dreams there was a prison. A farm. Railway tracks and dead fields. A girl with a sword. A man with a crossbow.And walkers.He ran a hand over his jaw. "Get it together, Miller."A knock came—quick, familiar—then the door pushed open without waiting.Sandra "Sandy" Duvall filled the frame like a walking principal's announcement: sixty-eight, iron spine, no wasted words. She had a clipboard under one arm and a look that could silence a cafeteria."Planning period?" Sandy asked."Yes, ma'am.""Then plan this." She slapped the clipboard down on his desk. "The district wants updated emergency protocols. Fire drills, lockdowns, hurricane procedures. Same paperwork, different year, same nonsense."Eli glanced at the top sheet. CDC Advisory Review – Local Schools was printed in small, official text.His stomach tightened.Sandy noticed immediately. She always did."Don't start spiraling," she said, voice low. "It's probably nothing. And if it's something, we do what we always do—keep kids breathing and parents calm."Eli forced a nod. "Yes, ma'am."She stared at him a beat longer than necessary. "You've got that look again."Eli kept his face neutral. "What look?""It looks like you're listening to a radio nobody else can hear," Sandy said. Then she turned and left like she'd said too much.Eli stared at the paperwork.The door opened again—this time with laughter.Marcus Clause leaned in, carrying a mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST MUSIC TEACHER and a stack of sheet music like it was a shield. Twenty-seven, big smile, steady presence. The kind of guy who could make a kid stop crying just by speaking in a calmer tone."Eli," Marcus said, "tell me you didn't just get ambushed by Sandy."Eli lifted the clipboard slightly.Marcus whistled. "Oof. That's like getting called into the principal's office but forever."Behind Marcus, Gavin Reed appeared—twenty-four, automotive tech teacher, part-time musician, permanent grin that looked like it held back a lot of pain. He carried a greasy rag in one hand and a guitar case in the other."I was gonna come in and bully you into joining the staff talent show," Gavin said, "but you look like you're trying not to throw up.""The talent show is canceled," Eli said. "On account of my soul leaving my body."Gavin chuckled, then his gaze snagged on the CDC paperwork. His grin faltered."Yeah," Gavin said softly. "That."Marcus shifted, casual on the outside, watchful underneath. "Maddie said the hospital's doing some CDC review training too."Eli's throat tightened. "Grace is in Atlanta. CDC."Gavin's eyebrows rose. "Your wife-wife. CDC-wife.""Yes," Eli said, deadpan. "That one."Marcus set his mug down like he needed both hands free to keep his voice calm. "Okay. But—hey—Atlanta's fine. It's just… protocols. That's all."Eli nodded, even though something in his bones didn't believe it.A head popped into the doorway—a tall, quiet man with sun-browned skin and a farmboy steadiness. Braxton "Ridge" Carter, twenty-five, agriculture teacher, assistant baseball coach, always looking like he'd rather be outdoors than inside."Have you guys seen Hal?" Ridge asked. "He's supposed to meet me by the gym for inventory."Gavin pointed down the hall with the rag. "History kingdom. Probably giving a speech about Rome falling."Ridge smirked. "Yeah. Classic Hal."Marcus glanced at Eli again. "You want company tonight? Like… after school? We can come by. Bring food. Help you pretend the world isn't weird."Eli's chest warmed in a way that made him uncomfortable—because it felt like the kind of warmth you clung to right before you lost it."I'm fine," he said automatically.Gavin raised the rag like a judge's gavel. "Liar."Eli almost smiled. Almost."Go," Eli said, pushing them away gently. "Before Sandy senses joy and shuts down the whole wing."Marcus laughed, Gavin saluted with the rag, Ridge nodded and left.Eli sat back down.And the quiet came back too fast.The splinter in his mind twisted again:Prison. Farm. Tracks. Rot.End of the world.He pulled his phone up again, thumb hovering over Grace's name.He didn't call yet.Not because he didn't want to.Because a part of him was afraid that if he heard her voice… he'd hear the countdown behind it.Grace — CDC, Atlanta, GeorgiaBy the time most of Atlanta was finishing lunch, Grace Miller had already been in the lab for six hours.The CDC's secure wing always felt out of time—no windows, controlled air, everything humming with a low nervous energy. The badge scanner blinked green as she passed through another door, the smell of disinfectant and cooled machines leading her toward BSL-3.Dr. Edwin Jenner was already inside, hunched over a monitor. The screen glowed with rows of data that looked harmless if you didn't know how to read them.Candace Jenner stood by the fume hood, arms folded, watching a set of cultures incubate. "You're late," she said, without much heat."It's nine-oh-seven," Grace answered, tugging her dark hair into a tighter bun. "That's practically yesterday compared to you two."Edwin didn't look up. "The latest samples from the field arrived. Military hospital in Texas. They're calling it an atypical prion-like encephalopathy."Grace pulled on her gloves. "And what are we calling it?"Edwin's mouth twitched. "Classified. For now."Candace's eyes flicked to Grace. "Your father-in-law's contacts are… invested."Just the mention of Matthew Miller tightened something in Grace's chest. Grace loved Matthew in the complicated way you loved family—warmth threaded with unease. His contracts had reached. His money was silence.She stepped up to the monitor, scanning the graphs. Protein misfolding. Rapid neurodegeneration. The cadaver notes she'd read earlier flashed in her mind—aggression, high fever, then sudden cardiac arrest.And after death…Her eyes caught on a notation in Edwin's margin: Spontaneous post-mortem motor activity? Recheck."Post-mortem motor—?" Grace started.A memory hit her, sharp and dizzying.A dark room. A man sobbing. A woman's voice, murmuring, "Just look at the flowers."
Gunfire. Blood on a lens. Her own breath inside a bunker, fogging a window as the world ended above.Grace grabbed the edge of the nearest bench. The lab spun, then snapped back into focus."Grace?" Candace's voice was closer than it should've been. "You okay?""I—yeah." Grace forced the words out. "Didn't sleep."heEdwin studied her for a beat, something like fear buried under years of training. Then turned back to the screen."We have three confirmed clusters," Candace said. "Texas, Virginia, Alabama. Your job is to prove it's just a weird little blip that goes away if we poke it hard enough.""And if it isn't?" Grace asked quietly.For a heartbeat, the room went still.Edwin exhaled through his nose. "Then we get to be the first people in history to watch the world catch fire from the inside out."Fire.Wildfire.In the back of Grace's head, a phrase surfaced, uninvited and unwelcome:We're all infected.Her phone buzzed—once, twice—then kept buzzing, like the outside world was trying to pull her back.Grace checked it.A family thread.On Eli's side: Hope sending a picture of flour-covered cupcakes with "Guess who bribed the teachers' lounge?" Jacob sending a dumb meme. Aiden posted a blurry selfie mid-run. Levi sent a voice note that was mostly wind and excitement.On Grace's side: Samantha Rossford—her mom—sending Grayson's newest drawing like it was the most important thing on earth.SAMANTHA: "Gracie look at this BABY. He drew you as a superhero. 😭❤️"
Attached: a stick-figure Grace with a cape, holding what looked like a microscope like a sword.Then David Bruce Rossford—her dad—former military tactician—texted right after, blunt as ever:DAVID: "Are you sleeping? Are you eating? Are you paying attention to exits?"
DAVID: "Situational awareness is love."Grace stared at the screen too long.Because the thread assumed next week would always come.Grace set the phone down and went back to work. Clear liquid into labeled wells. One breath at a time.Edwin spoke without looking up. "Run the new PCR sets. See if the marker shows up again."Grace's hands paused. "Marker?"Candace slid a file across the bench. A codename printed at the top.WILDFIREGrace's stomach dropped. "Wildfire?"Candace frowned. "You were in the meeting."Was she?Grace nodded anyway, because what else could she do?As she began to work, she couldn't shake the feeling that a countdown had already started.And somehow, impossibly… she felt like she'd heard this ticking before.Rick — King County, GeorgiaThe roadside bar looked the same as it always had—two gas pumps out front, a battered neon sign, a tinny radio behind the counter playing old country like time had stopped in the '90s and refused to move.Rick Grimes sat in a booth with a cold soda sweating on the tabletop, listening to Shane talk."…and I'm telling you, man, Lori's blowing this out of proportion," Shane said, dragging a fry through ketchup. "Carl had a bad day at school. Kid's six. Not like he pulled a gun on the teacher.""Don't joke about that," Rick said automatically.Shane snorted. "You know what I mean."Rick did. He'd known Shane since high school. Could read bravado like a language.But Rick's attention kept drifting to the TV mounted in the corner—muted news cycling through election coverage, a wildfire in California, and a story about a weird sickness in a Texas nursing home.His skin prickled."You hear me?" Shane asked."Yeah," Rick lied, then sighed. "No. Sorry. I'm… tired."Tired of waking up with his heart pounding and the taste of gunpowder in his mouth. Tired of hands that clenched in his sleep like they were wrapped around a rifle.Tired of dreaming of hospital corridors lined with corpses.He rubbed his thumb over his wedding ring. "Do you ever get the feeling you're forgetting something important?"Shane raised an eyebrow. "Like your anniversary? Because I'm not covering for you."Rick huffed a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "No. Bigger. Like you lived a whole other life, and then someone unplugged you mid-stream and dropped you in this one."Shane leaned back, half-amused, half-concerned. "You've been on those Reddit boards again?"Rick's gaze flicked to the TV. CDC scrolled by at the bottom.Shane followed it. "Lori's been on edge about that too. Something in Atlanta. Feds say it's nothing. End-times people say it's the rapture or whatever."End times.The words rang through Rick like an echo.For a second—just a second—Rick was standing in the middle of a dead city beside a torn-open horse and a burned tank. The air is thick with rot and smoke.He blinked hard and the bar snapped back into place: fry grease, voices, neon."Earth to Deputy," Shane said.Rick swallowed. "I feel like I've done this before."Shane's grin faded. "Yeah? How'd it end?"Rick heard himself answer before he decided to: "With me waking up in a hospital. And the world has gone to hell."Shane stared. Then, quieter: "You need a vacation."Outside, sunlight slanted across the parking lot, glinting off Lori's car under the oak. She'd taken Carl to a dentist appointment, and promised to bring takeout later.Rick pictured her face. Carl's.For no reason he could name, his chest tightened.He pulled his phone out and texted her: Love you. Get home safe.
His thumb hovered, then added: Both of you.He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.A reply came quickly: We're fine, Rick. ❤️ See you tonight.Rick stared at the heart emoji like it was a fragile thing.He'd never been superstitious.But whatever storm this was, he felt it coming.
Madison — Los Angeles, CaliforniaMadison Clark stood in the hallway outside her office, watching a fight almost start.Two boys squared off—backpacks on the floor, a ring of students tightening like crows around roadkill. Phones came up fast.Madison tried to step between them before a punch landed.But another teacher stepped in to break up the fight. It was one of the highschools History teacher Travis Manawa. And he just so happened to be her Fiance.
"Hey," Travis snapped, voice cutting clean through the noise. "Back it up. Now.""He started it.," one of the boys said. "Doesn't matter who started it.," Travis interrupted. Madison walked over right next to him, and before Ricky, lacrosse captain, opened his mouth to argue.Madison gave him a flat look that said she'd survived things he couldn't imagine."Office," she said. "Both of you."They moved, grumbling. The crowd dispersed like smoke."You okay? You look stressed?", Tavis asked. "Yeah I'm fine, just tired.", Madison said. Travis didn't push it further, he knew better. "I'll see you later tonight.", Travis said then left to go teach his next period. Madison leaned back against a locker and rubbed her temples.She'd counseled kids for years—grief, addiction, violence, parents who treated their children like problems to fix. She knew how to untangle pain.But lately it felt like she was counseling ghosts.Not them.Herself.In her dreams, Alicia was older. Nick was older. Everything was ruined. She'd seen deserts and stadiums and rivers turned into graves. And then there Travis, She saw him die, not just him, but others the both of them held dear as well.She'd seen herself hard.She'd seen herself fail.Then she'd woke up in 2025—traffic, sirens, petty drama, Travis talking about History, Alicia complaining about a charger, Nick calling from rehab with a wary voice.Her phone buzzed.ALICIA: Mom, are you working late? Nick called. Says hi. Also you owe me Starbucks.Madison stared at the screen, then typed:
Tell your brother I said hi. Be home by ten. I mean it.
Pause. Then: I love you.Three dots pulsed, then: Love you too.Madison exhaled, and something in her steadied.Whatever this déjà vu was, she'd carry it like a weapon.She wasn't losing them this time.Joel — Boston, MassachusettsBoston in March was a particular kind of gray—cold enough to live in your bones.Joel sat in a beat-up pickup watching commuters hurry past, shoulders hunched against wind. He checked his rearview mirror, then the street, then his watch.His contact was late.He rolled a toothpick between his teeth. Habit. Distraction.The passenger door opened. A man in a gray beanie slid in, jaw tight."You're early," the man said."You're late," Joel answered.The man handed him a duffel."Straight to the address I sent," the man said. "No stops."Joel didn't open it. "You know that ain't how this works.""It's medical."Joel snorted. "Everything's medical until it ain't."He unzipped the duffel just enough to peek.Vials. Labels. A few with a CDC emblem.His pulse tripped."You're stealing from Uncle Sam now?" Joel asked.The man looked away. "Do you want the money or not?"Joel zipped it shut slowly. For a second, he smelled something that wasn't there—mold, spores, death—and heard gunfire echoing down a corridor.He shoved the memory down where he kept the rest."What's in it?" Joel asked, voice flat."Virus samples. It's nothing. Backup for a private lab. In case the government clamps down."Joel stared at the bag and felt something in his gut twist. Time—real time—felt shorter than it should.He put the truck in gear."Seatbelt," he muttered.Jack — St. Sebastian Medical Center, Savannah, GeorgiaJack Shephard hated elevators.He'd never admit it. He rode them daily. But lately, the tiny metal box felt like a trap.Today was worse. Every time the elevator chimed, he half-expected jungle.The doors opened onto the surgical floor: white walls, fluorescent hum, nurses calling for charts.Normal.But the TV in the waiting area flashed an image of the CDC in Atlanta with words like containment and investigation crawling along the bottom.Jack's stomach dipped.For a moment, the screen flickered and he saw a bunker. Concrete. A man whispering there was no hope left.Fire.Jack forced a breath. Pulled his professional mask on.Later, he promised himself, he'd dig into those Atlanta reports.Something about them pulled at him like static under the skin.Deacon — Oregon, near Farewell WildernessThe road wound through pine and abandoned cabins, cracked asphalt buckling under too many winters.Deacon St. John let his bike eat miles, engine rumble steady in his chest. March air stung his cheeks. Wet earth. Old wood smoke.He should've felt free.Instead, a heaviness sat between his shoulder blades.He passed an empty campground. A torn tent flapped in the wind.For a second, he saw it crowded—panic, infection, things tearing through canvas.Freakers.Walkers.He clenched his jaw and twisted the throttle.Boozer crackled over comms. "You gonna keep brooding or actually ride, brother?"Deek snorted. "I am riding.""Like my grandma," Boozer said, then hesitated. "You hear about that disease thing in Texas?"Deacon didn't answer. Didn't have to.He'd been dreaming too long to ignore patterns.Storm coming.Yeah.It felt like it.Hal — Florida / Georgia LineHal Navarro wiped chalk dust from his hands and stared at the map he'd drawn."Rome fell," he told his class. "So did empires and economies and whole ways of life. History is one long argument about who adapts and who doesn't."A kid muttered, "That's depressing."Hal smiled. "It's also hopeful. Because people adapt. Even when it hurts."After the bell, Maddie slipped into his classroom wearing scrubs, fatigue behind her eyes."You're thinking too hard," she said, kissing his cheek. "That's dangerous for a history teacher."Hal pulled her close a beat longer than usual. "You okay?"Maddie hesitated. "We had a guy die and… the nurses said he moved after. Like he tried to sit up."Hal's spine went cold.He forced a laugh he didn't feel. "Probably reflex."Maddie nodded, but her eyes weren't convinced.Hal hugged her again, tighter this time.Because lately, he'd been dreaming of a quarry camp.And a man named Rick Grimes.Eli — NightfallGrayson fell asleep in Eli's lap on the couch, dinosaur drawing crumpled against his chest. Hope and Jacob argued at the kitchen table. Levi and Piet bickered about soccer. Somewhere in the house, Aiden was moving too loud, too fast, like stillness offended him.It should have felt ordinary.Safe.The TV—muted—flashed:CDC INVESTIGATES UNUSUAL CLUSTERSAtlanta. The building where Grace worked.Eli's phone buzzed.From Grace ❤️:
Running late again. Don't wait up. Might be overnight. I love you. Kiss Gray for me.Eli typed:
Be safe, Gracie. Please. I love you. We all do.
Then, after a pause:
If anything feels wrong… call me. No matter what time.No response.He stared at the family thread—Hope's cupcake picture, Jacob's meme, Aiden's chaos messages, Levi's excited voice note.Then Grace's side popped up too—Samantha Rossford posting Grayson's superhero drawing again like she wanted everyone to see it, like she wanted the universe to notice how loved this kid was.SAMANTHA: "My grandson is the greatest artist alive and I will fight anyone."
DAVID: "Locks. Exits. Awareness. Love you. Call me."Eli swallowed hard.He wore dog tags under his shirt—engraved names, a private promise to never let the world take them.His eyes drifted shut for half a second.A highway. Abandoned cars. Heat shimmer.A man in a sheriff's hat walked toward him, duffel over his shoulder, eyes already tired."You're new," the man said."Feels like I'm not," Eli answered.The man nodded like he understood. "Name's Rick.""Eli."Eli woke with a sharp inhale, heart pounding.Grayson slept on, undisturbed.Outside, a dog barked at nothing.On the TV, the CDC headline disappeared—replaced by celebrity gossip and sports.But the echo stayed.March 5, 2025.
There were 177 days left until August 28th.Until the day the dead stopped staying dead.Eli didn't know the number consciously.But something buried inside him counted down anyway.And it whispered:This time, you remember.
This time, you prepare.
This time, you don't get caught sleeping.