It had been three days since Clementine and the others left the camp. Today, it was my turn as well the platoon was moving out, making this my final day here.
In just those few days, I had learned more than I ever thought possible.
First came field skills, focused on survival basics: how to properly set up a tent and start a fire, read maps with a compass, use camouflage and concealment, hunt, and track. Skills designed to keep you alive when everything else fails.
Then came marksmanship handling different firearms from multiple positions, maintaining them, moving under fire, patrolling, and using cover effectively. These were the skills soldiers lived and died by.
Finally, there was hand-to-hand combat. Not stylized martial arts, but practical fighting: weapon retention, disarming techniques, and defending against knives and firearms at close range.
I hadn't mastered all of it. I still needed more practice.
But I had learned the foundations, enough to survive, enough to adapt.
Strangely, learning became easier the more knowledge I gained. Each new skill reinforced the others, like puzzle pieces snapping into place faster and faster.
By now, I had focused on four martial arts: jiu-jitsu, Muay Thai, kickboxing, and judo—for now.
I packed my belongings carefully. A few MREs. A water bottle. And most importantly, the combat training manuals Amir had given me as a gift. They contained nearly everything I needed to continue training on my own.
It was one of the greatest gifts I had ever received.
I thanked him again. He brushed it off, saying it was for my birthday, but that didn't lessen my gratitude.
Once everything was packed—my pistol secured in its holster and my sword resting on my hip—I stepped outside, ready to go.
The camp was already coming apart. Soldiers dismantled tents while others moved with radios pressed to their ears, voices sharp and efficient.
I headed toward Amir's tent.
It was time to say goodbye.
As soon as I stepped inside, he looked up at me.
"Ready to head out, kid?"
I nodded.
I could see it in his eyes—he didn't want me to leave. But he knew better than to stop me. He let out a deep sigh.
"Be safe out there," he said quietly. "And don't forget to take care of yourself."
Words weren't enough.
So instead, I stepped forward and hugged him tightly.
For a moment, he froze.
Then he scoffed. "Hey—stop that. Are you trying to make me cry? Be a man and get going."
I slowly let go, smiling despite myself.
He had taught me more than how to fight or survive. He taught me how to stand on my own.
"Thank you," I said sincerely. "For everything."
He waved it off. "Just remember one thing—keep moving forward."
"Yes, sir," I said, nodding.
He smiled faintly.
"There's a bike outside," he added. "You'll reach Savannah faster that way. And if you run into trouble—radio me."
I nodded again. "Goodbye."
I mounted the bike and raised a hand in farewell as I rode off, following the railway tracks.
The cold wind slammed into my face, stinging my eyes. I leaned forward and pushed on.
Despite everything, the scenery was beautiful.
Rusted bridges. Empty highways. Abandoned towns. Wrecked cars were scattered like bones.
The closer I got to Savannah, the more undead I saw.
Then I noticed movement ahead.
People.
I slowed the bike, observing from a distance.
Three survivors were backed against a raised railway embankment. In front of them stood nine others—ragged, armed with knives and axes, too alert to be walkers.
Bandits.
"Give us all your supplies," one snarled, "and we won't kill you."
As the bike engine echoed, all nine turned toward me.
"That kid's got a bike," one said greedily. "Take it."
Two rushed me immediately.
I stopped the bike and stepped off calmly, loose gravel crunching beneath my boots.
I bent down and picked up two rocks. When they were close enough, I threw.
Both struck cleanly, piercing their skulls.
They collapsed before reaching me.
Silence fell.
I got back on the bike, glancing at the others. The survivors stared in shock. The bandits hesitated.
I looked at them for a moment, then turned back to the bike. It wasn't my fight. I started the engine.
"Wait!" a woman cried.
I didn't stop.
"Please—help us! We have food!"
I slowed.
Food mattered.
I turned around.
Seven bandits now stood between the survivors and me. Lean. Hard-eyed. Predators, not desperate people.
"Get out of here," one said. "This doesn't concern you."
I drew my pistol and aimed.
They froze.
"You won't shoot," another said. "You'll draw walkers."
He was right. I lowered the gun.
They relaxed.
Then I drew my sword.
"Leave," I said coldly. "Now."
They exchanged glances. One rushed me.
Too slow.
I sidestepped, twisted his arm, and locked it.
Crack.
Another charge.
I kicked him in the head.
His jaw shattered.
Screams filled the air.
Seeing the fight turn against them, one stepped forward. "Okay—we'll leave. Just don't hurt us."
As he and another bandit dragged away the wounded, I moved.
Steel flashed.
Two heads rolled before they could process what had happened. Blood sprayed across the gravel.
The rest panicked and fled.
I didn't leave loose ends.
I moved fast, precisely, and relentlessly. One by one, I cut them down as they tried to escape. I was faster, Stronger, and more trained.
When it was over, all nine bandits lay motionless.
I searched their bodies. Almost nothing, just a few cans of food, which I took gladly. I had planned to let them go, but they would have been a threat later. I wasn't taking that risk.
I wiped the blade clean.
Then I turned to the woman and the two injured men.
They stared at me in horror.
I mounted the bike.
"So," I said calmly, "where's the food you promised?"