THE WALKING DEAD "Pilot” Teleplay by Frank Darabont From the Graphic Novel by Robert Kirkman

FADE IN: EXT. GEORGIA LANDSCAPE - DAY An endless vista: beautiful, checkerboarded farmland, rolling hills, blazing blue skies, drifting clouds. And a highway. Clean, well-maintained. And empty as far as the eye can see. In fact, there's nothing moving at all. Nothing to disturb the silence. Nothing. Until a speck appears on the highway. Coming closer. The speck becomes a COUNTY POLICE CRUISER. The only thing moving as far as the horizon. INT. CRUISER - DAY CLOSEUP: FUEL GAUGE flirting with empty. REVEAL: The driver, OFFICER RICK GRIMES, one eye on the gauge, the other on the highway. Unusual: We'd expect a guy like this to be spit-and-polish, but he's not. He's haggard, exhausted, unshaven, no tie. He shields his eyes against the sun, seeing ahead: EXT. GAS STATION ON HIGHWAY - DAY A HUGE SPRAWL OF ABANDONED CARS radiates outward from the gas pumps. It looks like the world's biggest and most disorganized used-car lot. Vehicles spill out onto the road and even into the surrounding fields. The cruiser pulls in. Weaving slowly among the cars. Rick stops, cuts the engine. This is an close as he can get to the pumps, which are hemmed in tight. Rick gets out. It is deeply, eerily quiet here. All we hear is: Just the breeze. And a scrawled SIGN flapping idly on string: "NO GAS." And the faint droning of flies. RICK starts to walk. Awed by the quiet and the sense of desolation that surrounds him. He's noticing things:

Laundry here and there, hung on lines among the cars. 01ld campfires. Luggage strewn. Empty cans. A few tents. Sheets duct-taped to the sides of cars to make lean-to shelters. The people who were here tried to stick it out for a while. God knows what happened to them. Maybe they moved on. But. No. Not all. He's starting to register it now: BODIES in the cars. Corpses slumped. Heads leaning against windows. Hard to tell how many. Rick stops. Jesus. People died waiting here in their fucking cars. Hard to take. The silence, the desolation, the decay. He turns to leave, but: A sound. A shuffling? Something scuffing on dirt? Rick is drawn, straining to hear. There's nothing for a moment, and then: hears it again. A few rows over. He drops to his belly, looking under the cars... RICK'S POV (UNDER THE CARS) A PAIR OF BUNNY SLIPPERS can be glimpsed a few rows away. Pale, dirty ankles. A little girl. The feet shuffle along, desultory. In this heat, these conditions, she'd have to be malnourished and dazed. The slippers come to a filthy TEDDY BEAR on the ground. A little hand reaches down, picks it up by one leg. The bunny slippers shuffle on, teddy bear dangling. RICK Heart racing. Knows he has to rescue her, doesn't want to scare her. He rises, weaving among the cars, CAMERA FOLLOWING as he tries to catch sight of her... He comes around a car, catches a brief glimpse as she moves out of sight. Pajamas and a pink terry robe. FOLLOW RICK faster, desperate not to lose her. He comes around some more cars, sees her up the row ahead... RICK (calling gently) Little girl. Little girl.

She slows, stops. Looking very vulnerable. Little shoulders. Badly-matted hair. That dangling teddy bear. RICK I'm a policeman. I'll help you. Don't be afraid, okay? (pause) Little girl? She turns. Staring at him with deep, sunken eyes. Flesh drawn tight on skull and bone. Lips torn away, leaving just a snarl of teeth. She's got braces. Clots of old decayed meat caught in the metal. She's dead. Not sick. Not dressed up for Halloween. Dead. A hungry glare comes into her eyes, the closest thing we'll ever see to an actual thought. She starts toward him down the row of abandoned cars. He backs up, numb. Unsnaps his holster, hand on the butt of his service revolver. She breaks into a shambling, snarling run. He pulls his weapon, a .357 COLT PYTHON. She's getting close. BLAM! The GUNSHOT snaps her head back in halo of dark, viscous fluid. She's thrown back, a bunny slipper flying off, crumpling pathetically, her teddy bear bouncing and tumbling to a stop in the dirt... VARIOUS ANGLES CORPSES in the cars rouse at the sound of the gunshot, dead faces rearing up, heads swiveling, eyes gleaming, staring at Rick. Way more of them than he realized. He gazes around -- oh shit -- as we GO TO: TITLE CREDIT IN BLACK WALKING Title should be short and simple, graphic and powerful... DISSOLVE TO: TIGHT DETAIL SHOT: a POLICE SCANNER issues sporadic crackles of faint crosschatter, as:

RICK (0.S.) What's the difference between men and womenv? SHANE (0.S.) This a joke? RICK (0.S.) No. Serious. ANGLE WIDENS. .. INT. A PARKED POLICE CRUISER - DAY ...revealing a SHOTGUN in its floor mount. CONTINUE DRIFTING past a dangling DAY-GLO NET BAG containing a few spare 9MM AMMO CLIPS and .357 SPEEDLOADERS... SHANE (0.S.) In my experience? Never met a woman who knew how to turn off a light. It's genetic. They're born thinking the switch only goes one way -- on. WE DRIFT past rubber-banded notebooks. A stapler. A dash- mounted cup of mismatched pens and pencils. All the little telling details that show a cop car is a working office... SHANE (0.S.) It's like they're struck blind when they leave a room. Every woman I ever let have a key, swear to God, I come home and my house is 1lit up like a mall at Christmas. We come to a GREASY TRAY-BOX OF FRIES on the dash. We hear rustling fast-food wrappers, slurps of soda... SHANE (0.S.) So then my job, apparently because my chromosomes are different, is to go through the house and turn off every light the chick left omn. A HAND reaches in, grabs fries, dips ketchup... SHANE (0.S.) This, then, is the core basis of the male-female dynamic. The yin and the yang.

RICK (0.S.) That right? FOLLOW THE FRIES TO: OFFICER SHANE WALSH, County Police, in the passenger seat outside a fast-food restaurant. SHANE Yeah, baby, Reverend Shane is a'preachin to ya now... He shoves the fries in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. SHANE The same chick, mind you, will bitch about global warming. That goes double if you want to drive something with a decent V8 under the hood, in which case you're a selfish prick killing baby polar bears. He grabs the box of fries off the dash, passes them... REVEAL: Rick Grimes at the wheel, looking way more spit- and-polish than in the teaser, half-heartedly picking at his burger. Rick's a quiet, Gary Cooper-type, has long experience when it comes to listening to Shane. SHANE So Reverend Shane quotes from the Guy Gospel: Well, darlimn', maybe if you and every other pair of boobs on this planet figured out the light switch goes the other way too, we might not have so much global warming. RICK You say that? SHANE The polite version. Still. Earns me a look of loathing you wouldn't believe. Out comes this Exorcist voice, out of nowhere: "You're just like my goddamn father! Always yelling about the power bill and I should turn the goddamn lights off!™ (looks to Rick) See, to us it's just lights. To them it's a traumatic flashback that dredges up all their father issues.

Pause. Shane RICK What do you say to that? SHANE I know what I want to say. I want to say: Bitch, you mean to say you been hearing this shit all your life and you're still too goddamn stupid to learn how to turn off a switch? looks over. SHANE I don't actually say that, though. RICK That would be bad. SHANE I do the polite version there too. RICK Very wise. A beat. Things yet unspoken. Rick's mood is down, his manner distracted. SHANE How's it with Lori? RICK (deflecting) She's good at turning off lights. Really good. I'm the one who sometimes forgets. SHANE Not what I meant. Beat. Rick uncomfortable. Finally admits: RICK We didn't have a great night. SHANE Yeah. File that under "no (off Rick's look) Look. I failed to amuse you with my sermon. But I tried. Least you could do is speak, tell me what's going on. subdued,

RICK That 's what she always says. "Speak." You'd think I was the most closed-mouth son of a bitch ever, to hear her tell it. SHANE You express your thoughts? Share your feelings? That stuff? Rick hesitates, searching for the words. RICK Thing is. Lately. Whenever I try, everything I say makes her impatient. Like she didn't wanna hear it after all. It's like she's pissed at me all the time, and I don't know why. SHANE Couples go through shit like that. Just a phase. RICK (quieter) Last thing she said this morning? "Sometimes I wonder if you even care about us at all." She said that in front of our kid. Imagine going to school with that in your head. Pause. Rick stares ahead, hiding his depth of pain. RICK The difference between men and women. I would never say something that cruel to her, and certainly not in front of our child. Suddenly, the police scanner SQUAWKS: DISPATCHER (filtered) Available units, code 3. High speed pursuit in progress, Highway 18, EB, Linden County units request local assistance, suspects reported as two, male, Caucasian, GTA, ADW, 217, 243, advise extreme caution...

Shane and Rick toss the food, relaying it out the window into a bin, Rick firing up the engine.. EXT. COUNTRY ROAD - DAY A rural road is revealed in a LONG LENS SHOT. Blacktop and blue skies, lush farmland. Idyllic, except for: A PAIR OF CROWS squabbling over a red smear of roadkill on the broken yellow line. A brief hint that we're entering a world ruled by blood. And then: Rick's cruiser crests the rise, light-bars swirling red- blue-red-blue. The crows shrieking, flapping away... A SECOND CRUISER appears some quarter-mile behind, also racing to the scene... IN FAST CUTS A trunk flies open, Rick and Shane wrestling out a spiked TIRE STRIP on a thick flexible backing... The tire strip is thrown across the blacktop, metal spikes unraveling toward camera... The cruiser backs away from the tire strip at speed with Rick at the wheel. They screech to a stop by the second cruiser, angling to create a roadblock... RICK AND SHANE scramble out, take cover, aim weapons over the hood. Doing the same: TWO COPS at the second car: an older guy, LAMBERT "LAM" KENDAL, and a young rookie, LEON BASSET. The men gaze up the road as Rick pulls the dash radio. RICK Dispatch, unit 1, unit 3, we are 10-97 and code 100, Highway 18, EB of interstate, please advise. DISPATCHER (filtered) Stand by, unit 1... The cops wait, listen, hearing: DISTANT SOUNDS ECHO across the countryside: roaring car engines, wailing sirens, the chop of a helicopter...

LAM Sounds like they're chasing those idiots up and down every back road we got. Leon nods, amped, nervous. Looks over at Rick and Shane. LEON Think they'll even get here? Shane shrugs, uncertain. But: RICK They will. Those Linden County boys are good. Carter and those guys. They'll steer 'em right to us. Leon looks to Lam. The older cop gives a tight nod -- if Rick says so, expect it. LEON Maybe we'll get on one of those video shows? World's Craziest Police Chases? You think? RICK What I think, Leon, is you need to stay focused and make sure you got a round in the chamber and your safety off. Leon, chastened, checks his breech and safety, as: RICK AND SHANE DISPATCHER Unit 1, unit 3, be advised, suspects are now EB 18, your direction. SHANE (quietly) We could, you know. Get on one of those shows. RICK God, no. (glances over) You know how she hates me doing thig job. Please let's not embellish today's events any more than we have to. That's if we ever talk about it, period.

10. SHANE I just don't see her point. (off Rick's look) You? You're not closed-mouthed at all. Can't shut you up. A BEAT-UP, PUKE-GREEN '69 DODGE CHARGER comes sailing over the crest of the road from the opposite direction. A POLICE COPTER rises up behind, ROARING, pacing. Several LINDEN COUNTY POLICE CARS in full pursuit, but slamming on their brakes as: The Charger hits the tire strip at full speed, never saw it coming, TIRES BLOWING OUT, car swerving as the driver tries to maintain control but loses it, and: The Charger flips, rolls, smashing itself all over the blacktop...lands hard on its wheels...and is still. The Charger just sits, nobody visible, steam hissing from its smashed radiator. Beyond it, B.G., COPS are pouring from the Linden County pursuit cars, weapons poised, making their way along the side of the road toward the car, covering one another... RICK AND SHANE Rick gives the others a nod and emerges from behind the cruiser, gun poised, edging toward the Charger. The others hang back, covering him, Shane grabbing the handset, speaking through the cruiser's loudspeakers: SHANE (loudspeaker, amplified) IN THE CAR. IF YOU CAN HEAR ME. DO NOT RESIST OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE. AN AMBULANCE HAS BEEN CALLED AND IS ON THE WAY. No response. Rick gets closer to the silent Charger, now about fifty feet away, when suddenly: TWO MEN pop from the Charger, bleeding, crouching behind doors, pistols and shotguns thrusting over sills, and: A THUNDEROUS EXCHANGE OF GUNFIRE, shotguns BOOMING, pistols CRACKING. .. Rick caught in the open, throwing himself to the pavement. ..

11. Fellow officers scrambling, ducking, FIRING on the Charger from all directions... Rick crawling toward the roadside ditch for cover... Shane ducking, the light bar of their cruiser EXPLODING from a shotgun round, red and blue fragments raining... The suspects FIRING, taking hits in the crossfire, metal PUNCTURING, glass SHATTERING, windshield EXPLODING... Rick gets to the ditch, too shallow for cover, and a BULLET HITS HIM IN THE CHEST, his kevlar vest saving his life but the impact knocking the wind right out of him... The suspects finally get taken down, torn apart by gunfire, lives draining away red on the pavement... And it's over. Stunned silence follows. The only sound now is the helicopter hovering high above. SHANE RICK?! RICK I'™M ALL RIGHT! Rick rises, a bit shaky. Moves toward the Charger. Other cops emerge, closing in from all directions. Rick gets to the Charger first, gun poised, assessing the scene. Shane edges up behind Rick, shotgun aimed. Rick glances down at his dented vest in dazed disbelief. SHANE Saw you get tagged. Scared the shit out of me. RICK Me too. Son of a bitch shot me. You believe that? He glances to Shane, half-turning... RICK Shane? You do not tell Lori that happened. Ever. You understand? Rick never sees the THIRD SUSPECT thrusting up in the back of the Charger, never sees the PISTOL, he sees only Shane's face as he tries to scream a warning...

12. BLAM! Massively loud. The bullet hitting Rick, but Rick not so lucky this time because he's half-turned and the bullet hits him in the side under the armpit where the vest offers no protection, erupting in blood, and in the same instant: BOOOOOM! Shane FIRES his shotgun, killing the suspect, blasting him through the rear window onto the trunk, as: Rick is spun/staggered/thrown to the pavement, rolling onto his back in a growing pool of his own blood... Shane drops to his knees at Rick's side, rips open the kevlar vest, trying to stop the bleeding, hands turning red as he applies pressure... SHANE Rick! Rick! Oh god, he's hit! ANGLE WIDENS, RISING UP, figures growing smaller below ug, officers shouting and running in, Shane screaming... SHANE WHERE'S THAT AMBULANCE? WE NEED AN AMBULANCE! OFFICER DOWN! ..and Shane's voice grows distant, fading, as we FADE TO: INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY RICK'S POV: Weird, surreal, dreamlike. We're looking up at a ceiling. Shane appears, gazing down at us. Off-duty clothes. Image weaving. Sound strange, distant: SHANE Buddy. Hey. (pause) We're here. Still hanging in. (beat) I'm sorry. I say it every time I come in, I know, but... He stops, reins his emotions. He leans out, returns with a VASE OF FLOWERS. The vase is a blue-and-white frilly porcelain pattern, the flowers a mixed arrangement. SHANE Everyone pitched in. Asked me to bring this down. They send (MORE)

SHANE (CONT'D) their love. Want you back real soon. (re: vase) Gals in dispatch picked it out. You can tell. I'll just leave it here on your side table... Shane leans out of shot to place the flowers, as: REVERSE ANGLE TIGHT ON Rick in bed, oxygen tube in his nose. Haggard, unshaven. It's not a dramatic cut, it's what we'd expect, but it is a strange cut, because: Everything goes normal. Image. Sound. The hallucinatory quality is simply gone. In the silence: Rick smiles, lets out a dry, papery laugh. Weak: RICK That vase. That's something special. Fess up. You steal it from your granny's house? That strikes him as even funnier, but his laughter rasps into a dry cough. It tapers away, he catches his breath. RICK Yeah, that's right. Gramma Dale. Hope you left her that spoon collection. The ones with Mount Rushmore. Yellowstome. A long stretch of silence. RICK Shane. He eases a look to the side. Nobody's there. HIGH WIDE ANGLE Rick just lies there. Deep, deep silence. The shades are drawn, murky daylight filtering in. He's been talking to an empty room. RICK Shane? (waits) You in the john? 13.

14. TIGHT ON RICK Wondering where Shane went. He turns his head on the pillow, sees something he doesn't understand... ANGLE TO: That vase on his nightstand. Same frilly blue- and-white pattern. But... The flowers are long dead. Dry petals everywhere. How can that be? Shane just brought them in. He gets his hand moving, finds the call button. Presses it to summon a nurse. Nothing. He keeps pressing. Glances at the clock on the wall: THE CLOCK Dead. The sweep second hand is frozen. RICK Power's out. He gives up on the call button, tries to yvell for help, his voice still weak: RICK Hello? He sits up. Huge effort. Swings his legs to the floor, removes the tube from his nose. Picks up a flower petal. It goes to dust in his fingers, drifts to the floor. He looks around. There are other flowers arrangements around the room. All just as dead. He looks up. The I.V. bag he's hooked up to is empty. He tries to stand, using the I.V. tree for support. Halfway to his feet, the tree topples, dumps him hard on the floor. He rolls over, fetal, weeping with frustration and pain. RICK Nurse! Help! He gets his hands under himself, pushes painfully to his hands and knees. Listens to the silence.

15. INT. BATHROOM - DAY He's leaning on the sink, gulping water from the faucet as 1if he never intends to stop. He pauses, gasping for breath. Looks up in the mirror at his reflection, shocked at how bad and gaunt he looks. INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - DAY Gloom. No lights on. Corridor deserted. Rick appears, moving slowly, leaning on walls for support. He finds the nurses' station. Papers strewn everywhere. A computer smashed on the floor. He fumbles for the desk lamp -- nothing. Tries the phone, the various lines -- more nothing. He checks the nurses' counter in the gloom, sweeping his hands along, looking for anything that makes light. He finds a book of paper matches. Opens it. Five ragged little matches left. They'll have to do. INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY He's on the edge of the bed, laboriously pulling his pants on. His eyes go back to that vase of dead flowers, still trying to understand it. He notices a "get well" card propped behind it. He picks it up, opens it. TIGHT ON CARD In a childish hand: "Dear Daddy. We miss you. Get well soon and come home!!! I love you, Carl." RICK closes the card. A pained, wistful smile. EXT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - DAY Rick emerges from his room again, wearing his hospital robe and pants. The bandage on his wound is quite evident, covering one side of his chest under his arm. He comes to an intersecting corridor. He turmns the corner...and stops, seeing:

16. A DEAD NURSE lies sprawled down the hallway, visible in the faint glow of some skylights. She's lying there torn open. Blood so old it's turned dark brown. Rick numb. Tries to process what he's seeing. He turns back, continues... FOLLOW HIM hobbling slowly, panic increasing, as more and more dried blood is revealed on the walls, long smears of it, a handprint or two... And bullet holes. Lines of them. Machine guns were fired. DOUBLE DOORS at the end of the hall. A sign: Rick steps into frame. There's a two-by-four jammed through the door handles on this side. The door handles are chained and padlocked too. Painted hastily on the left door is a message: "DON'T OPEN!" And on the right door: "DEAD!" He approaches, slowly, wondering what it means... RICK'S POV PUSHING SLOWLY TOWARD the door... The doors heave slowly outward, pushed from the other side. The two-by-four CREAKS, the chain goes taut. RICK flinches back. Stares in horror as: Fingers probe through the crack before his eyes: pale, wriggling, fish-white fingers with torn fingernails. Then more fingers appear, all up and down the crack of the door. Straining. Seeking. FAINT GRUNTING is heard within, a sound like malevolent feral pigs. Rick backs away, terrified. Sees the elevator, hits the button. Nothing happens -- of course, the power's out. He continues to a door marked "STAIRS." Throws one last look back at the cafeteria doors. Those awful, weird fingers are still there, wriggling in the crack.

17. INT. STAIRWELL - DAY Rick steps in, mind reeling, closes the door quietly behind him. Total darkness now. Shit. We hear him fumble out the book of matches. He strikes one. The glow is faint, but at least something. He moves forward. The staircase is a black, cavernous void yawning before him. Something smells bad, too. He goes to the railing, catches a direct whiff of incredible stench below. He Jjerks his head back. Match goes out. Pitch black. In the dark, we hear the forced quiet of a man not panicking. The fumbling of a matchbook... Another match is struck. Light. Not many left, only three after this. Gotta make them count. He starts down the stairs, leaning on the railing for support. He takes the steps like an 80 year-old afraid of tripping in the dark and falling. That stench, Jesus. He glances over the railing, trying to see, but the light won't reach down the stairwell. Match goes out. Pitch black. He strikes another one. More steps taken carefully. That stench from below is unbelievable. The matchlight shows: Doors on the landing below, vague in the darkness. A sign that says "EXIT." Huge relief. Gotta get to those doors. Then home free. Match goes out. Pitch black. Just sound now: Rick breathing. Wondering if he should risk another match. Coming further down the stairs in darkness, using the railing as a guide. Is he near the lower landing? He can't take it any more. We hear the matchbook. He lights his next-to-last match. Relieved to see: The door's close. Just a few more steps down, then across the landing.

18. He can't believe that stench. He turns to the railing, peers down the stairwell shaft. Inky blackness below, impenetrable. Faint, guttering match in his fingers, about to die. He's gotta know. Can't help himself. He holds the dying flame to the last match in the book. It catches, flares up, igniting the matchbook cover as well. He leans out over the railing. Lets it drop. The flaming matchbook plummets down and down, fluttering like a firefly in the dark... TIGHT ON DEAD MAN'S FACE ..and smacks a corpse's cheek, bounces off, lands inches in front of its decaying, sclerotic eyes... Flame dies. Pitch black. ANGLE IN PITCH BLACK Rick lets out a yell, runs blind, hits the dooxr, the blackness suddenly torn open before us, throwing us headlong into blazing daylight... Rick reeling, blinded, hands before his face, trying to get his senses, to tamp his inarticulate terror. He gets hold of himself...somewhat. Enough to reapproach the doors. He forces himself back across the threshold. Taking slow steps in. Moving to the railing. He's thinking: What I thought I saw in that brief flare of light can't be right. Can't be. He gets there, looks down. The daylight from the open doors spills faintly down the shaft, but it's enough: The stairwell shaft below is a pit of dead. God-knows how many there are, God-knows how deep it goes. A vast tangle of them, Dachau in the stairwell of a Georgia hospital. Head wounds. All or most were shot in the cranium before they were dumped down the stairwell. EXT. HOSPITAL/LOADING DOCK - DAY Rick re-emerges into blinding daylight, mindblown, gasping for fresh air.

19. ANGLE WIDENS as he moves along the loading dock... MORE AND MORE DEAD BODIES are revealed, though these at least show some attempt at organization: The bodies were hastily wrapped in white sheets and stacked like firewood along the hospital wall. Hundreds of them. Blots of dried blood on the sheets: They, too, were all shot in the head before being dumped here like garbage awaiting pickup. Rick looks back at the exit door he just came out of, realizing: When they ran out of sheets and time and manpower, they just started shooting them and dumping them down the stairwells inside the building. ANGLE WIDENS, FOLLOWING HIM past DUMP TRUCKS sitting silently with their load-beds full of sheet-wrapped bodies, stacked in layers like sacks of grain. ANGLE KEEPS WIDENING. .. Rick goes into the street. Sees madness everywhere: Broken glass. Overturned cars. Debris. It looks like the world's biggest riot took place. WIDE, WIDE HIGH ANGLE Rick is a mere speck in the street below, the silence crushing. .. DISSOLVE TO: EXT. STREETS - VARIOUS ANGLES - DAY Rick walking. Streets deserted. EXT. STREET - DAY Rick moving, barely on his feet. Checking cars for ignition keys. Many were abandoned, doors hanging open. EXT. STREET - DAY WHUM, WHUM, WHUM -- the sound of am engine trying to turn. A car sits plowed into a mailbox. Rick is inside, cranking the key. The car almost starts. Kicks a cloud of noxious blue smoke from its exhaust pipe. Dies. Silence again.

20. EXT. STREET - DAY Rick weaving on his feet, past exhausted. Up ahead, he sees: A BICYCLE lying in the tall weeds just off the road. He approaches, sees a DEAD WOMAN lying near it. It looks like she took a horrible spill and died here at the side of the road. She's desiccated, skeletal, her lower half mostly gone as if consumed by animals. Rick reaches for the bike. Gets it upright. A tire's flat, but the bike rolls. The woman turns her head, looks at him. Rick cries out in shock, drops the bike on the grass. Her hand twitches, claws in weak frustration. Rick reels back, horrified. He turns away, not wanting to look, stumbles to sit on a park bench. TIGHT ON RICK Sitting. His back to the body lying on the grass B.G. Willing himself not to turn and look again. Mind whirling. Trying to convince himself he imagined it. He finally glances back. The woman is still. Rick looks forward again. Working up his courage. He forces himself to his feet, forces himself to go back for the bike. As he gets close: The woman starts moving again. She knows he's there. Rick gets on the bike and pedals away. She's left writhing weakly in the grass, making awful keening sounds... DISSOLVE TO: EXT. STREET - RICK'S HOUSE - DAY Rick appears, a lone figure, shaky on the bicycle. He arrives at his house, drops the bike on the lawn. The house looks bad: windows broken, screen door torn off. He's badly winded, dizzy and spent, but forces himself up the porch steps to the front door.

21. Heart racing. Trying not to panic at the condition of the place -- and the fact that the front door is open. INT. RICK'S HOUSE - DAY He finds the living room trashed. Curtains hanging in tatters. Furniture overturned. Items strewn about. RICK Lori? CAMERA FOLLOWS as he staggers through the house, finding destruction everywhere. Dishes broken and scattered in the kitchen, shelves overturned in the den... RICK LORI! CARL! INT. BEDROOM - DAY He enters and stops, breathing hard. Drawers are pulled out, dumped empty on the floor. As if items were packed. EXT. HOUSE - DAY Rick exits onto the porch, dazed, at a loss. He gazes out at the dead street. The empty desolation. Some kid's Big Wheel in the street. A tire swing moving slowly with the breeze. Strewn clothing. He sits down on the porch steps, devastated. Not knowing what to do, how to feel, how to cope. Pause. He glances up, sees: A FIGURE in the street. A man is walking slowly in this direction, coming up the block. RICK shields his eyes against the sun, trying to see. He raises a hand, gives a wave. THE WALKING MAN Pauses. Seeing Rick. Changes course in this direction. RICK Watching. CAMERA DRIFTS IN TIGHTER on his face... ...as, B.G., a SECOND FIGURE appears, out-of-focus. Moving slowly around the corner of the house. Sneaking up behind.

Rick just sits, oblivious, watching the Walking Man 22. approach in the street, while the figure behind Rick stalks closer and closer and... A board CREAKS. Rick spins, gasping, as: WHAM! A SHOVEL hits him in the face and we CRASH TO BLACK WE HOLD IN BLACK, hearing a voice: LITTLE BOY (V.0.) (shouting, echoey) Daddy. . .Daddy! RICK (0.S.) (moaning) Carl... AND WE FADE UP FROM BLACK to: RICK lying on the yellowed grass, semi-conscious: RICK Carl. LITTLE BOY Daddy! RICK Carl. Carl. I found you. RICK'S POV Looking up through weeds, TILTED at an angle, we see: A black boy, DUANE (age 10), standing over us with a shovel, getting ready to whack us again, calling past Rick toward the street.... DUANE Daddy, I got this sumbitch! I'm gonna smack him dead! RICK turns his head on the grass, sees: THE STREET (RICK'S POV) A fast, jarring, handheld glimpse:

Walking Man reaches the curb. Another MAN, out of nowhere, steps up fast with a small handgun. POP! Head shot. Walking Man crumples, flops on the pavement. RICK jerks his gaze, shocked. The gunman turns, comes running up the grass... RICK'S POV ...and skids to a stop: MORGAN JONES, Duane's dad, aiming the small .38 revolver. MORGAN Whoa, whoa, wait! Is he one of them? DUANE Looks like it. Morgan maneuvers his son back, cautiously peers closer. MORGAN Mister? RICK Blinking, blinded by the sun, confused. RESUME POV MORGAN He say something? I thought I heard him say something. DUANE He called me Carl. MORGAN Son, you know they don't talk. DUANE Careful, Dad. I don't like him. Morgan, tense as hell, thrusts his .38 at the lens, leans closer, peering down. MORGAN Mister? What's the bandage for? RICK Wh--what? 23.

24. MORGAN What kinda wound? Hey, you hear me? TIGHT ON RICK Face in the grass. Morgan presses the gun to his head. MORGAN Answer me, damn you! What's your wound? Tell me or I'll kill you! Rick tries to answer, but loses consciousness as we FADE TO BLACK INT. BEDROOM - DAY Rick wakes up in bed. The room is dark, one candle. The windows are covered with blankets, faint daylight seeping around the edges. Morgan's at the bureau, stripping off Playtex gloves so he can wash his hands in a bowl of water. Duane's down at the end, peering at Rick over the footboard. Rick turns his head slowly on the pillow, realizing: He's restrained: wrists strapped down tightly to the bed frame with knotted bungee cords. MORGAN Got that bandage changed out. Was pretty rank. Rick says nothing. Morgan scrubs his hands. MORGAN Looks like you had some doctor work on you. That right? RICK Must have. MORGAN What was it? Your wound. RICK Gunshot. MORGAN Gunshot?

Rick nods, perplexed by this conversation. MORGAN What else? Anything? RICK Gunshot ain't enough? Morgan approaches, tense. Pissed. MORGAN Look. I ask. You answer. Common courtesy. He leans closer, as if talking to a child: MORGAN Did. You. Get. Bit. RICK Bit? MORGAN Bit. Chewed. Maybe scratched. Anything like that? RICK No. I got...well, shot. Just shot. Far as I know. Morgan relaxes a bit, but still isn't convinced. MORGAN We'll see. Morgan heads for the door. RICK You gonna keep me tied up? Morgan pauses, looks back. Says nothing. He exits, taking his son with him... DISSOLVE TO: INT. BEDROCOM - NIGHT Rick lying in darkness, still strapped to the bed. A faint glow of candlelight from the outer room spills through the doorway. FAINT SOUNDS: a spoon stirring a pot, utensils being laid out. Whispers. 25.

26. A candle appears in the doorway. Morgan peers in, gquietly enters. He pulls a chair to the bed, sits down. The gun is tucked in Morgan's belt, ready. Duane hovers in the doorway, holding a baseball bat. Morgan sets the candle on the nightstand, reaches a hand toward Rick's face. Rick flinches away, but: MORGAN (quietly) Let me. Rick settles. Morgan puts his hand on Rick's forehead, feeling his temperature. A long beat, their eyes locked. MORGAN You're cool enough. Fever would have killed you by now. RICK I don't think I have one. MORGAN No. Be hard to wmiss. Beat. Morgan pulls a knife. Gives Rick a hard look. MORGAN This knife. Take a moment. Good long look. How sharp it is. You try anything, I'll kill you with it. Don't think I won't. Rick absorbs that, nods. Morgan slices through the restraints, freeing Rick's wrists. Rick brings his hands shakily to his chest -- no feeling, circulation's been cut off a long time. MORGAN You sit up? RICK Ah. God. Morgan helps him sit up... INT. LIVING ROOM/DINING ROOM - NIGHT Rick emerges, hands still held numb and raw before him, a blanket over his shoulders. He moves slowly into a living room (not his) 1lit by a few candles.

27. Morgan stands at the table, stirring a pot over sterno warmers. Duane is pouring bottled water into tumblers. Rick drifts, looking around. RICK This place. Fred and Sally Werner's? MORGAN Don't know. RICK Neighbors. Few doors up. MORGAN Never met them. RICK (looking around) I've been here. This is their place. MORGAN It was empty when we got here. Picked it because of the small windows. Easier to board up. Rick looks, sees blankets duct-taped over the front window. He touches, feels boards nailed across the window under the blankets. He hears DISTANT GROANING outside. Faint. There's a viewing slit safety-pinned together. Rick reaches for it, but: MORGAN Don't. They'll see the light. Rick turns. Morgan and Duane are watching him warily. MORGAN There's more of them out there than usual. I shouldn't have fired that shot today. Sound draws them. Now they're all over our street. He and his son take their seats. MORGAN Stupid, using the gun. Happened too fast, I didn't think.

Morgan ladles canned stew into a bowl, slides it to an empty chair. Motions for Rick to sit. Rick doesn't. RICK You didn't think. MORGAN No. I should have used the baseball bat instead. My mistake. (off Rick's stare) What? RICK You shot that man today. MORGAN Man? Morgan and Duane trade a look. DUANE Weren't no man. MORGAN What the hell was that out of your mouth just now? Son, you speak English, I know you do. DUANE It wasn't a man. Rick stares at them. A man who committed murder today is calmly correcting his son's grammar. Surreal. RICK I saw you. You shot him. In the street out front. A man. MORGAN You need glasses, friend. It was a walker. (nods at chair) C'mon. Sit down before you fall down. Rick gives in, sits. Duane is seated between the men, poised with his spoon. DUANE Daddy, blessing. Morgan holds out his hand to Duane, who takes it. 28.

29. Duane offers his other hand. It's meant for Rick. Rick stares at it while the boy stares at him, waiting. Feeling unreal, Rick takes the boy's hand. Morgan's watching, dips his head, keeps his eyes on Rick. MORGAN Father, we thank Thee for this food, Thy blessings, and ask You to watch over us in these crazy days, amen. DUANE Amen. The boy lets go of Rick's hand and digs in. Morgan looks to Rick, motions to the silverware. Eat. Rick picks up the spoon -- not easy. Hands not yet fully working. MORGAN And you. Damn fool. Just on a porch like it's any sunny day. You even waved to it. Jesus. Morgan watches him take a few bites. It's dawning on him that Rick may be every bit as clueless as he seems: MORGAN Mister? What's wrong with you? (pause) You even know what's going on? RICK I woke up today. In the hospital. Came home. That's all I know. Morgan and Duane trade a look. MORGAN You know about the dead people, though, right? RICK Saw a lot of that. Stacked like firewood. Out on the loading dock. Piled in trucks. Even tossed down the stairwells. MORGAN Not the ones they put down. The ones they didn't. DUANE The other ones.

RICK Other omnes. MORGAN The walkers. Rick stares. Doesn't understand. MORGAN Like the one I shot. He'd have ripped into you. Tried to eat you. Taken some flesh at least. That's what they do. Rick doesn't even know what to say to that. MORGAN If this is the first you're hearing it, I guess I know how it must sound. RICK Insane. Yes, insane. But... RICK I saw a...woman. In the park today. She...looked at me. Reached out. Morgan nods without question, keeps eating. RICK They're out there now? In the street? MORGAN They get more active after dark sometimes. Maybe it's the cool alr. Or, hell, maybe it's just me firing that damn gun today. (beat) Should be fine, long as we stay quiet and they don't figure out we're in here. They'll probably wander off by morning. Rick searches their faces, trying to make sense of it. MORGAN They were saying on the news some kind of virus. They were (MORE) 30.

31. MORGAN (CONT'D) guessing. There was a whole lot of that going on. All those experts looking scared down to their socks. (beat) Then the broadcasts stopped, that's the last we heard. That was a few weeks ago. Rick absorbs this. He was in a coma at least that long. MORGAN One thing I do know. Don't get bit. I saw your bandage, that's what I was afraid of. (off Rick's look) Bite kills you. Fever burns you out. After a while you come back. Hungry. Rick was about to take a bite of stew. He hesitates, forces himself to take the bite. Glances to Duane. The boy has stopped eating. In a quiet voice: DUANE Seen it happen. There's a story behind that. Rick doesn't press. They resume eating in silence, as we DISSOLVE TO: INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Bare mattresses on the floor, blankets, sleeping bags, one candle lit. Duane is tucked against his dad, sleeping fitfully. But the men are awake. Listening to the sounds outside. Weird groans. Occasional distant snarls. Thumps. MORGAN (softly) Carl. Is he your son? Rick gives him a look. MORGAN You said his name today. And I saw that in your pocket.

Rick pulls his get-well card from Carl out of his robe pocket, smiles at the crayon lettering. Duane stirs, RICK He's about your boy's age. MORGAN He with his mothex? RICK I hope so. MORGAN Me too. still half-asleep: DUANE Did you ask him? MORGAN (off Rick's look) The gunshot. We got a bet going. My boy says you're a bank robber. Rick can't help smiling. RICK Yeah, that's me. Deadly as Dillinger. Ka-pow. (shakes his head) Police officer. Morgan smiles... A CAR ALARM STARTS BLARING out there in the night. jerks fully awake with a gasp. MORGAN It's okay, son, I'm here. It's nothing. (to Rick) One of them must have bumped a car. RICK You sure? MORGAN Happened once before. Went for a few minutes. Duane The men trade a look, hearts pounding. Both uncertain. 32.

Wordless agreement: They rise, blowing out the candle, move to the front window, to the duct-taped blanket. Morgan carefully undoes the safety-pins of the viewing slit. Opens it a few inches, just enough to see out. A spill of moonlight hits his eye. POV (THROUGH BLANKET SLIT) Dark street. Figures moving around out there. Walking, aimless. Some are turning toward the noise of the car alarm -- a vehicle parked down the street. RICK AND MORGAN MORGAN That Honda down the street. Same one as last time. Morgan eases aside so Rick can take a look. Rick peers out, sees the car lights blinking as the alarm blares. Joining them: Duane undoes a lower viewing slit, peers out too. MORGAN Think we're okay. RICK That sound. Won't it bring more of them? MORGAN Nothing we can do about it now. Just wait it out till morning. Suddenly: Duane. A sharp intake of breath. Horror. DUANE She's here. Morgan reacts, moves Rick aside, looks out. MORGAN Don't look, Duane. Just get away from the window. (off Duane's hesitation) Go. The boy tears himself away from the window, runs back to their mattress, throws himself down. Morgan hurries after him. Rick is left at the window, no clue what's going on. 33.

34. MORGAN Shhh. Quiet now. Morgan gathers his son in his arms, the boy huddled against him, crying on his chest. RICK turns back to the viewing slit, peers out. RICK'S POV A WALKER is drifting up the lawn toward us. A woman. Her skin, once black, now the color of dead fish. RICK pulls back. It's like she knows they're inside. In fact, as he watches, she changes course from the window and drifts toward the front door. Rick loses sight of her. He leaves the slit, eases to the door instead. Listens. Barely breathing. He puts his eye to the peephole. PEEPHOLE POV (FISHEYE LENS) The woman is just outside, wildly distorted in the fish- eye effect. Turning her head, also listening. She reaches her hand out toward the door, and: Soft She wants in. ACROSS THE ROOM Morgan's holding his son, grabs a pillow, whispering: MORGAN Gotta be quiet now, Duane. Cry into the pillow. RICK AT THE DOOR At the door. Frozen. Listening, as: The scratching stops. Pause. He looks down: The door knob is turning slowly back and forth. She's trying to get in. But boards are nailed in place. Rick backs away. Goes back to his spot, sinks to the floor. Riveted to the doorknob revolving slowly, compulsively.

35. Rick looks over. Sees tears shimmering in Morgan's eyes. MORGAN She died in the other room. On that bed in there. Nothing I could do. That fever. Her skin gave off heat like a furnace. (pause) I should have put her down. I know that. But. I didn't have it in me. The mother of my child. And it's clear: he hates himself for it. FADE TO: EXT. HOUSE - MORNING The street mostly deserted now. One walker, male, sitting on the curb, slumped against a telephone pole in a torpor state common to their behavior, like a deep stupor. Also, a body in the street: another walker, for-real dead, a smaller female, torn apart and eaten. INT. HOUSE - DAY ON DOCR: A crowbar enters frame, pulls the boards... EXT. HOUSE - DAY The door opens. Rick and Morgan cautious. They emerge, trailed by Duane. Nobody got much sleep last night. Rick has the baseball bat, keeping his voice down, eyeing the walker slumped on the curb. RICK We're sure they're dead? (off Morgan's look) I know. But I have to ask. Least one more time. MORGAN They're dead. Rick nods -- okay. He turns and moves off the porch, heads across the lawn. Morgan brings the crowbar as backup. On the curb: The walker rouses, looks back, sees them coming. It heaves itself up, lurching to its feet, but:

36. Rick, fast, without pause, hauls off and splits its skull with a few brutal blows of the bat. The walker collapses, twitches at his feet, goes still. Rick, breathing hard, pauses to see how he feels about what he's just done. In truth, right now, he doesn't feel much of anything. He looks out at the female lying eaten in the street, throws a questioning look to Morgan. MORGAN If they don't find fresh, they'll eat one of their own. Take one of the weaker ones. They start down the street toward Rick's house. Morgan motions for Duane to stick close. RICK (points) That porch. Where you found me. You ever see anybody over there? That house? MORGAN Area was pretty deserted by the time we got here. Saw a few folks scurry out, a few last holdouts, but not that house. INT. RICK'S HOUSE - DAY Rick leads the way in. Stops. Looks around at the wreckage that used to be his home. RICK They're alive. (looks to Morgan) My wife and son. Morgan, doubtful, looking around. RICK At least they were when they left. MORGAN How can you know? From the look of this place...

RICK I found empty drawers in the bedroom. They packed some clothes. Not all, they were in a hurry, but enough to travel. MORGAN (hesitates) Anybody could have broken in here and stolen clothes. Rick gazes at the walls, shaking his head. RICK See the framed photos on the walls? Morgan looks, sees nothing. Blank spots. RICK Neither do I. Some random thief take those too, you think? Rick abruptly crosses to a cabinet, rummages wildly. RICK Our photo albums. Family pictures. All gone. MORGAN Photo albums. Morgan shakes his head in wonder, sinks onto the arm of the couch, starts laughing. MORGAN My wife. Same goddamn thing. There I am packing survival shit, she's grabbing photo albums. He laughs until he cries, wipes the tears away. Duane appears in the doorway, watching. DUANE They're in Atlanta, I bet. Morgan considers, looks to Rick with a nod. MORGAN That's right. If they got out of here okay, they're in Atlanta. 37.