Doomsday Survivalist: Guide to Survive!
Rule 4 : Training
Ryco woke up before his alarm, eyes snapping open like his body had already decided sleep was optional now. The room was dim—barely touched by the early morning light leaking through the curtains. For a moment he lay there, letting the cold nip at his nose. The wind slipped through the same crack in the window, colder than last night. Too cold for Manila.
He muttered, "Here we go," and swung his legs off the bed.
He geared up in silence: hoodie, durable pants, old sneakers with good grip. He tied his hair back, slung the compact bow across his back, and clipped the quiver at his hip. It wasn't dramatic, but it felt like suiting up.
The world wasn't ending yet, but the countdown had started.
He grabbed his backpack filled with snacks, water, a small med kit, and a notebook. Then he stepped out of the apartment.
The hallway lights flickered.
The building wasn't falling apart—it was just cheap. But Ryco felt the drop in temperature in the concrete walls. Manila normally woke up hot and humid, even before sunrise. But this morning carried an unfamiliar bite, like Baguio on a cold February night.
He jogged down the stairs with practiced steps. No elevator; he never trusted the damn thing.
When he stepped outside, the air was crisp enough that people were hugging their jackets tighter. Drivers looked annoyed instead of sweaty. Even the stray cats huddled under a makeshift shelter by the sari-sari store.
Another early sign, Ryco thought.
He unlocked his bike and rode toward the meeting spot—a small basketball court near the subdivision. The sun was low, making the roads glow orange. Vendors were setting up. Kids were yawning on their way to school.
Everything looked normal. And that made it worse.
As he turned a corner, he saw Jake already there.
Jake stood in the middle of the court, stretching, warming up like he was trying not to think too hard. He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder—stuffed full. Ryco could tell it wasn't clothes. Probably rope, gloves, maybe a water filter. Jake didn't half-ass things once he committed.
When Jake spotted him, his face lit up.
"Bro!" he called, waving. "I brought everything you told me."
Ryco hopped off his bike, parked it, and tossed Jake a small grin. "Good. We'll go through it later. First thing's first—we train."
Jake looked at the bow on Ryco's back and whistled. "Damn. You really look like you're about to hunt a deer in Canada."
"Get used to it," Ryco said. "Soon we'll be hunting something worse."
Jake's smile dropped a little, but he nodded. "Right."
They started with cardio—slow laps around the court. Then Ryco moved them into footwork drills, dodging, sidestepping, weaving. Jake complained at first, but soon he was sweating, breath sharp.
After twenty minutes, Ryco stopped him.
"You doing okay?"
Jake wiped his forehead. "I'm… dying."
"You'll get used to it."
Jake shot him a glare that didn't have any heat. "You're not human, bro."
Ryco just shrugged. "Practice makes survival."
Jake laughed breathlessly. "Yeah, yeah. Coach."
Then Ryco pulled out the compact bow, unfolded it with a clean snap, and handed Jake a pair of finger tabs.
"We start with basics. Stance first."
Jake's eyes widened. "Wait—you're letting me shoot that?"
"You need to learn," Ryco said. "Guns attract attention. A bow buys you silence."
Jake swallowed but nodded. Ryco positioned him, correcting his posture, adjusting his elbows, guiding his breathing.
"Relax your shoulders," Ryco said. "If you tense up, you'll miss."
Jake pulled the string, shaking a bit. "Like this?"
"Better. Don't overthink it. Just feel it."
Jake inhaled, held—
thwip.
The arrow flew… crooked. Very crooked. It hit the side of the target sheet and flopped to the ground.
Ryco snorted. "That was terrible."
Jake groaned. "Bro why are we doing this."
"Because," Ryco said as he retrieved the arrow, "you're going to thank me when you need to hit something in the dark."
Jake tried again.
Miss.
And again.
Miss.
By the fifth attempt, he finally grazed the edge of the bullseye. Jake threw his arms up. "YES! Let's go!"
Ryco clapped his shoulder. "Improve that another twenty percent and you'll survive a week."
"Oh, screw you," Jake laughed.
Ryco smirked, but inside… he felt lighter. This was good. Training. Preparing. Fixing the mistakes of the past.
Midway through the next set of shots, Jake lowered the bow.
"Ryco," he said, more serious now, "when does… all of this… really start?"
Ryco thought for a moment.
"Soon," he said. "Faster than last time."
Jake frowned. "What do you mean?"
Ryco looked at the sky. The clouds were thin and bright, but the cold lingered.
"The world is already shifting," he said. "And we don't have much time."
Jake tightened his grip on the bow. "Then what's next?"
Ryco stepped closer, eyes sharper now, voice steady.
"Next," Ryco said, "we prepare the people who'll survive with us—and stay away from the ones who won't."
Jake blinked. "Like who?"
Ryco's jaw tightened. Faces flashed in his mind—Lisa, Carlos, the selfish survivors who threw him under the bus, the ones who caused chaos in the safe zone, the monsters disguised as people.
"We'll handle that today," Ryco said. "But first… you need to learn how to hit something that's trying to hit you back."
Jake paled slightly. "Wait—what does that mean?"
Ryco smiled—not kindly.
"Oh, you'll see."
And day one of training truly began.
Ryco almost tripped over a tree root from how fast he spun toward Jake.
The guy stood there with a dead-serious face, hands on his hips like he'd just solved world hunger.
"Hey man, we're broke, right?" Jake said.
Ryco narrowed his eyes. "Uhuh? What you getting at?"
Jake shrugged. "Well… you said you've seen the future, right?"
"Uhuh?"
"So how about you play lotto. You know—"
He didn't even finish. Ryco lunged forward, grabbing both of Jake's shoulders like he'd just discovered a new element.
"Man, that's genius!" Ryco practically yelled. "I didn't even consider it! I didn't think of it at all! Yeah, let's do that!"
Jake blinked at him, stunned. Then he clicked his tongue and shook his head.
"Bro… you're from the future and still didn't use your knowledge. I swear."
Ryco scratched the side of his neck, embarrassed. "Well… it didn't cross my mind. I was too focused on, you know, zombies eating everyone."
"Uh-huh," Jake said, not convinced.
"Anyway!" Ryco clapped his hands, instantly fired up. "Let's go to the lotto store now. And hit the jackpot!"
Jake raised both arms. "Finally! That's what I'm talking about!"
They practically jogged back to the car, boots crunching through dry grass and scattered leaves. The forest around them carried that late-afternoon glow—gold light slipping through branches, insects humming, a soft breeze rolling in from the mountains. After ten days of nonstop drills, bruises, and survival lessons that made Jake swear Ryco wanted to turn him into a special forces reject, this sudden burst of "future profit planning" almost felt like a vacation.
As they walked, Jake nudged him. "So, just checking… we're not messing with the timeline or anything, right?"
Ryco smirked. "Jake, the timeline's already shredded. Might as well get paid."
Jake grinned back. "Man, I like this version of you."
"And I like the version of you that's still alive," Ryco replied, voice dropping a little. "So let's make sure it stays that way."
Jake softened. "Yeah."
Then Ryco pointed ahead. "Come on. Before someone else wins the thing."
"Don't jinx it," Jake muttered, but his pace quickened right away.
The two of them broke into a light jog down the dirt path—one thinking about survival, the other thinking about riches, both without knowing that this small decision would change far more than their wallets.
They reached the small, brightly lit lotto shop at the edge of town. The neon sign flickered slightly, buzzing in the quiet evening air. A few people were still inside, a couple of older men hunched over tickets, scratching numbers with tired fingers. The smell of fried snacks and disinfectant lingered faintly.
Ryco pushed the door open and the little bell jingled. Jake followed, eyes wide like a kid in a candy store.
"Alright," Ryco said, scanning the rows of tickets, "we need the big one. The jackpot numbers. I already know—" He froze mid-gesture.
Jake grinned, leaning closer. "Wait—what? You do?"
Ryco smirked, whispering, "I've seen it before. Future, remember?"
Jake almost did a fist pump, but Ryco shot him a sharp look. "Quiet. People will think we're insane."
The clerk, an older woman with a tired expression, gave them a cautious glance. "Two big ones?" she asked, suspicion lingering in her voice.
"Yep," Ryco said, trying to sound casual. "Two sets of the biggest jackpot."
Jake handed her the money from his bag—small bills, counting each one. Ryco bit his lip, trying not to grin.
As she printed the tickets, Ryco glanced around. Outside, the wind had picked up slightly, carrying a chill that made the hairs on his arms stand up. He remembered the subtle temperature drops from the news. Soon, this place wouldn't just be cold—it could be deadly.
The tickets slid across the counter. Ryco grabbed them quickly, feeling the paper between his fingers like it held more than money—it was a symbol of preparation. Of control in a world that was about to slip from their hands.
Jake looked at the numbers, then back at Ryco. "Man… we're really doing this?"
"Yeah," Ryco said, tucking the tickets into his pocket. "If nothing else, it'll give us a little breathing room to stock up, survive… and plan the next moves."
Jake's grin faded slightly as he noticed the serious edge returning to Ryco's expression. "Next moves?"
Ryco leaned closer. "Yeah. The forest. Supplies. Hunting practice. The people we trust… and the ones we need to warn. Every little thing matters. And the clock's already ticking."
Jake's grin returned, though now it was tinged with nervous energy. "Alright… let's do it."
They left the lotto shop together, tickets safely tucked away, and the sun was setting low behind the trees. Shadows stretched long across the ground, and the cool air made their breath visible. Ryco couldn't help but feel the weight of what was coming. The world was shifting—slowly, quietly, but unmistakably—and soon the streets, the forests, even their homes, would all become battlefields.
For now, though, they had their first win—small, fleeting, but theirs. And that was enough to keep moving.
Ryco pushed the bike forward, Jake following on foot, both of them thinking the same thing, though neither spoke it aloud: survive, and make sure the people who mattered most survived with them.
And somewhere in the back of Ryco's mind, a darker thought lingered. Soon, they'll see the first of the evolved ones. And when that happens… everything changes.
They waited.
A whole night and half a day passed before Ryco finally pulled up the results on his phone. He sat on the edge of the bed, Jake standing behind him with a towel over his shoulder, fresh from a shower, still smelling like cheap soap.
Ryco scrolled.
Stopped.
Scrolled back up.
Jake leaned in. "Well? Don't tell me we got nothing—"
Ryco's voice cracked. "Dude…"
Jake froze.
"We won."
Jake blinked. "What?"
Ryco swallowed. "Two hundred seventy-six million."
Jake stared at the screen like it might explode. Then—
"WOOOOOOHHHHH!"
He grabbed Ryco by the shoulders and shook him so hard the phone nearly flew.
Their celebration was wild, messy, loud—two idiots jumping in a cramped apartment like they'd just dodged death itself. In a way, they had.
The next morning, they took the bus straight to the main PCSO office in Mandaluyong. They tried to act calm but failed miserably—Jake kept giggling; Ryco kept wiping sweat off his neck. After a mountain of paperwork, verification, signatures, and one very suspicious security guard eyeballing them...
It was done.
276 million pesos.
They split it right down the middle.
Jake clenched his envelope of documents and nearly cried. "Bro… I can finally send my parents out of Manila without them thinking I'm crazy."
Ryco nodded. "Good. And we can start building that bunker."
They didn't waste the day. They went straight to work, calling the four people Ryco trusted enough to bring into the inner circle.
Ghelle. Elisia. Cyrus. Marcus.
All four met them at a small café near the university, confusion and mild amusement written on their faces.
Ghelle was the first to speak. "You two suddenly rich and now calling a meeting? What is this, an MLM ambush?"
Marcus snorted. "Are we selling insurance?"
Elisia folded her arms. "Just talk. What's going on?"
Ryco took a breath. "What I'm about to say sounds insane. But I need all of you to listen."
He told them everything. Not the virus itself, not the ancient origin—just what would happen tomorrow. A specific event.
A jeepney accident.
A sudden fire from a short circuit on a busy street.
The exact time.
The exact location.
And the exact number of people injured.
They stared at him like he'd grown horns.
Cyrus frowned. "Ryco… that's oddly specific."
"It's too specific," Elisia added.
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. "You sure you're okay, man?"
Ghelle was the only one who didn't comment—she watched Ryco quietly, eyes narrowing. "If this happens… I'll believe you."
Ryco nodded. "Then wait for tomorrow."
Tomorrow came.
At exactly 4:17 PM, the breaking news alert flashed on every phone.
Jake showed his screen to the group.
There it was.
Jeepney crash. Short circuit. Street fire. Same place. Same number of casualties. Same time.
Silence.
No one breathed.
Marcus was the first to speak, his voice cracking. "Holy… sh*t."
Elisia's hands trembled. She set her phone down carefully, like it might burn her. "Ryco… how… how did you know?"
Cyrus sat back hard in his chair. "Okay. I'm in. Whatever it is—you're not lying."
Ghelle looked at Ryco—not scared, not confused. Dead serious. "Tell us what we need to do."
Ryco and Jake exchanged a glance.
This was their team.
Their backbone.
Their future lifelines.
And they needed every single one of them.
Jake cleared his throat, taking a small notebook from his pocket. "Alright. We're splitting tasks. Your assignments start now."
GHELLE
"Buy land. Large land. Preferably secluded. Check islands for sale, too. You'll handle the documents. We'll fund everything."
She nodded, expression already focused.
JAKE
"Food stockpile. Bulk goods. Canned food, rice, frozen goods, water. You know how to stretch a budget. Now stretch a fortune."
Jake grinned. "Easy."
RYCO
"Weapons, gear, tools. I'll source the best stuff I can while staying under radar."
CYRUS
"We need medicine. Medical supplies. Proper equipment. An oxygen tank, portable defibs, antibiotics, surgical kits. Find a supplier—preferably willing to sell bulk quietly."
Cyrus straightened, the medic instinct kicking in. "On it."
ELISIA
"Monitor the world," Ryco said. "Weather shifts, temperature drops, unusual reports, unexplained illnesses, animal behavior. News, forums, government posts—everything."
Elisia took a deep breath. "I can do that."
MARCUS
"We need a base here in Manila. Temporary shelter until we move to the main land or island. Find something we can fortify. Warehouse, old building, storage unit—something discreet but strong."
Marcus cracked his knuckles. "I already know some places."
Finally, Ryco looked at all of them.
"What we're building isn't just a hideout. It's a lifeboat. For us, for our families, for anyone we can save."
Jake placed a hand on the table. "You trust us. So we trust you. All in?"
One by one, they nodded.
"All in."
Ryco felt the moment settle deep in his gut—heavy, real, grounding. The future he remembered was starting to bend. Shift. Change.
This time, they weren't running.
This time, they were preparing.
And the clock, somewhere far in the cold north, kept ticking.
Day 40 started like any other for Ryco and Jake—training, planning, prepping. Ryco had been strict over the last month: hunting drills, bow practice, running, climbing, lifting, anything to push their bodies to the limit. "When the shit hits the fan," he had reminded the team repeatedly, "stamina and endurance are what'll save your ass. Don't get lazy."
Jake groaned halfway through a sprint. "Bro… my legs are gonna fall off."
Ryco smirked. "Good. Let them fall. We fix them later."
After the morning drills, Ryco was heading down the narrow alley near his apartment when he spotted two familiar, irritating silhouettes: Lisa and Carlos.
Lisa's eyes lit up, sniffing like a bloodhound. "Ryco… heard you hit the jackpot! Millions, huh? Bet you're loaded now!"
Ryco waved dismissively. "Nahh… I'm broke. If you'll excuse me, I'll be going."
Lisa scoffed, stepping aside with a smug grin—but Carlos wasn't alone. Behind him were two hulking figures, blocking Ryco's path.
"Hold up. Who said you can go?" the tallest one said, nearly six-foot-two, shoulders broad like a wall.
Ryco tilted his head, feigning confusion. "Uhm… yoma, ah?"
Carlos's group blinked. "Who's yoma, ah?" the tall guy demanded.
Ryco smirked. "You're mama," he said, voice sharp, almost playful—and in the next instant, he grabbed the tall guy's arms, yanked him forward, and with a swift pivot, planted a powerful side kick square in his face.
The guy collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.
"Let's go," Ryco muttered under his breath, and started running.
Carlos's group recovered their shock and surged forward—but Ryco was already moving through the urban landscape like a ghost. Every alley, wall, railing, and rooftop became a part of him. He vaulted over trash cans, swung from low-hanging pipes, rolled across crates, and kicked off walls to change direction. Parkour, yes—but efficient, deadly, precise.
Every move was calculated. Every leap, pivot, and landing remembered from years of running through hordes of zombies, from times he had been chased by evolved creatures in his past life. He let his body recall the instincts of survival, now sharpened after a month of rigorous training.
Jake, watching from a distance, could only gape. "Bro… is he serious?"
Ryco darted up a fire escape, spun onto a narrow ledge, and ran along the side of a building as Carlos and his friends shouted behind him. They were fast, strong—but Ryco was… something else. His body had been honed for this, muscles memory honed from fear and past trauma.
"Think they can keep up?" he thought, adrenaline roaring through him. Years of being chased, being cornered, learning the environment as a weapon… and now training this body to match that instinct.
He grabbed a hanging cable, swung across a narrow street, landing lightly on the other side. Then a wall hop, a quick roll through a puddle, and up the side of a loading dock. Every step burned, every muscle screamed—but he ignored it. He had a goal. Escape. Outlast. Survive.
Below him, Carlos's group cursed, stumbled, tried to mimic his moves—and failed. None of them were trained for this. None had lived through what Ryco had survived.
"Not even close," he muttered with a grim smirk, vaulting over the final railing and landing safely on a rooftop alley.
Ryco slowed, crouched, and glanced back. Carlos's group were scrambling, confused and panting, struggling to figure out how a nerdy guy—once lazy, once weak—could move like this.
He smiled grimly. If only they knew… I'm just getting started.
And as the wind brushed past his face, Ryco thought about the future apocalypse, the zombies, the evolved ones, the snow, the magnetic shifts. All of it. Every second of training, every ounce of pain—it was all preparation. And now, even his past enemies could see: he was no longer just a guy to push around.
He tightened his grip on the wall edge, ready to continue. Parkour wasn't just a skill—it was survival. And soon, everything would test that to its limit.
"Let's see if they catch up…" he muttered with a grin, vanishing into the urban maze.
To be continue.