The first week was hell.
Not the kind of hell I'd lived through before—the hunger, the fear, the scratching at the door. No, this was a different hell. The hell of choice. The hell of knowing exactly what was coming and having to smile like everything was normal.
Monday, September 16th. Day one of training.
I woke up at 5 AM. My body screamed. One hundred fifty push-ups the night before had left my arms feeling like overcooked spaghetti. But I got up anyway. I'd learned something in my past life: pain meant you were still alive. Dead people don't feel pain.
I put on old running shoes and went outside.
The city was quiet. A few cars, a homeless man sleeping on a bench, the distant sound of a garbage truck. Normal people living normal lives. I started jogging, and within two minutes my lungs were burning.
Pathetic.
But I kept going. One foot in front of the other. Past the closed shops, the dark windows, the streetlights still glowing orange. My heart pounded. My legs felt like lead. But I remembered something from those books I'd read: muscle adaptation happens during recovery, not during exercise. You break yourself down, then you build back stronger.
So I broke myself down.
Two kilometers. That's all I managed. Then I walked back, gasping, bent over with my hands on my knees, spit dripping onto the sidewalk.
A woman walking her dog stared at me.
"First day?" she asked, amused.
"Something like that," I wheezed.
She laughed and kept walking. She had no idea. None of them did.
Back home, I showered, ate four eggs and a banana, and opened my laptop. I had maybe three weeks before the world ended. Three weeks to become someone who could survive.
I made a schedule:
5:00-6:30: Running and calisthenics
6:30-8:00: Breakfast + study (first aid refresher)
8:00-15:00: University (pretend to be normal, but observe people)
15:00-17:00: Afternoon workout + weights
17:00-19:00: Contact missions (find them, watch them, plan)
19:00-22:00: Study + supply planning
22:00-5:00: Sleep (no exceptions, recovery is everything)
I looked at the schedule. It was insane. Nobody could keep this up for a month.
But I wasn't nobody. I had something they didn't. That warmth inside me, that ridiculous endurance—I'd never tested its limits. Time to start.
---
Tuesday, September 17th. I ran 2.5 kilometers.
Wednesday: 3 kilometers.
Thursday: 4 kilometers. I threw up afterward, but I did it.
Friday: rest day. I studied instead. Locksmithing. The art of opening doors without keys. In the apocalypse, locked doors meant supplies. Unlocked doors meant death. I read a 200-page manual in three hours and remembered every diagram.
Saturday morning, I bought a set of lockpicks online. Discreet, cash, different store. Then I went to a hardware store and bought a heavy bag, a pull-up bar, and a set of weights. The cashier raised an eyebrow at the skinny kid buying all that, but I just smiled.
"New year's resolution," I said.
It was September.
---
By the second week, my body was changing.
Not dramatically—I wasn't going to look like a movie hero in fourteen days. But something was happening. The runs got easier. Five kilometers without stopping. Then six. Then seven. My arms started showing definition, just a little. My shoulders didn't look so narrow anymore.
But the real change was inside. That warmth I'd always felt, that energy I never understood—it was waking up. I'd finish a workout and feel tired for ten minutes, then suddenly I'd have a second wind. I'd sleep four hours and wake up refreshed. I'd eat a meal and feel it turn into fuel almost immediately.
I started researching. Medical journals, endocrinology texts, case studies. I found mentions of something called "hyperandrogenism"—elevated testosterone levels, sometimes congenital. Extreme cases could lead to higher muscle density, faster recovery, increased libido, and in rare instances... well.
There was a reason girls in high school talked. A reason I was always embarrassed to change in the locker room. A reason my few sexual experiences had been... complicated.
In my past life, it didn't matter. I was too busy hiding and starving to think about that.
Now? Now I had a feeling it would matter very much.
---
September 23rd. Twelve days before the outbreak.
I found Carla.
She was in the engineering library, buried under textbooks, exactly where I remembered her from my past life. Not that I'd known her then—I'd just heard stories. "That engineering student who reinforced the north building," survivors said. "Lasted three months until they ran out of water."
Three months. In the apocalypse, three months was an eternity.
I watched her for an hour before approaching. Dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, glasses sliding down her nose, chewing on the end of a pen while she stared at structural diagrams. She was pretty in a focused, academic way. The kind of pretty you don't notice until you really look.
Finally, I walked over.
"Excuse me. Is this seat taken?"
She glanced up, annoyed at the interruption. "What? No, sit wherever."
I sat down across from her and pulled out my own books. Not engineering texts—those would be suspicious. Just random study materials. I wanted to be near her, to observe, to find the right moment.
For twenty minutes, I pretended to read while watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was working on something complex—load-bearing calculations for a bridge design. I understood maybe half of it from the books I'd read, but she was operating on another level.
Finally, she stretched and rubbed her eyes. "Ugh. I've been staring at this for four hours."
"Load distribution on suspension bridges?" I asked casually.
She blinked at me. "Yeah. How did you—" She glanced at my books. "You're not in engineering."
"No, I'm in... nothing important. But I read a lot."
"Huh." She looked at me with new interest. "Most people's eyes glaze over when I talk about this stuff."
"Most people are idiots."
She laughed. It was a nice laugh. Genuine.
"I'm Carla, by the way."
"Robert." I hesitated, then took a risk. "Hey, can I ask you something weird?"
"Weirder than a random guy in the engineering library knowing about suspension bridges?"
"Fair point." I leaned forward. "If you had to design a building to survive... I don't know, a disaster. Something long-term. What would be the most important features?"
She tilted her head, curious. "What kind of disaster?"
"Anything. Everything. The worst-case scenario."
She thought for a moment. "Structure first. Reinforced concrete, minimal windows, single point of entry. Then utilities—water collection, waste management, ventilation. Then supplies, then defense." She looked at me. "Why?"
"Just curious." I stood up, gathering my books. "Thanks, Carla. Maybe I'll see you around."
"Wait—" She stopped me. "You didn't even study anything. You just sat there."
I smiled. "I was studying something. Just not books."
I left before she could ask more questions.
---
That night, I wrote in my journal:
Carla: Confirmed. Engineering student, sharp, probably lonely (engineering library on a Saturday night). Approach strategy: intellectual curiosity. She responds to people who take her work seriously. Need to build trust before outbreak so she follows me when things go bad.
Next: Sofía. Harder. She's the daughter of a policeman, which means she's probably been trained to be suspicious. Need a natural connection. Maybe the shooting range? Need to check if she goes there.
Lucía: Still watching. Need a reason to talk to her that doesn't seem crazy. Maybe a fake injury? Too obvious. Wait for right moment.
Valeria...
I stopped writing.
Valeria was different. She was my ex. We'd broken up a year ago over something stupid—she wanted to travel, I wanted to stay, we were young and dumb and didn't know what really mattered. In my past life, I never saw her after the outbreak. Never knew what happened.
Now I had a chance to find out.
But finding her meant opening old wounds. Meant explaining things I couldn't explain. Meant risking everything for someone who might not even want to see me.
I closed the journal.
One thing at a time.
---
September 25th. Ten days left.
I ran 10 kilometers without stopping.
I did 300 push-ups in a single session.
I could see my abs for the first time in my life.
And I finally found my opening with Lucía.
She was leaving the clinic at her usual time, 7 PM, but something was different. She looked upset. Really upset. Red eyes, walking fast, clutching her bag like it was the only thing keeping her together.
I followed at a distance. Not creepy—just enough to see where she went. She walked to a small park, sat on a bench, and put her head in her hands.
This was it. The moment.
I walked over slowly, giving her time to notice me.
"Excuse me? Are you okay?"
She looked up, startled. Her eyes were wet. "I'm fine. Just—" She wiped her face. "Sorry. Bad day."
I sat down on the bench, leaving space between us. "Yeah. Those happen."
We sat in silence for a moment. Then, quietly: "We lost a patient today. A kid. Eight years old. Leukemia. We've been fighting for two years, and today..." She trailed off.
"I'm sorry."
She laughed bitterly. "Why are you sorry? You don't even know me."
"No, but I know what it's like to lose someone you tried to save." I thought of my past life. All the people I couldn't help. "It never gets easier. But it means you cared. And that matters."
She looked at me. Really looked. "You're weird."
"So I've been told."
Another silence. Then: "I'm Lucía."
"Robert."
We talked for an hour. Not about anything important—just life, work, stupid stories. By the end, she was smiling. When she left, she said, "Maybe I'll see you around, Robert."
"Yeah," I said. "Maybe you will."
I watched her walk away and felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
---
September 28th. One week left.
I was in the gym at 6 AM when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number. I almost didn't answer, but something made me swipe.
"Robert?"
My heart stopped.
It was Valeria.
"How did you get this number?" I asked, my voice steady even though my hands were shaking.
"Your mom. I called her. Said it was important." A pause. "I don't know why I'm calling. I just... I had a dream about you. A really weird dream. And I couldn't stop thinking about it."
A dream. My past life bleeding through? Or just coincidence?
"What was the dream?"
"You were in a basement. Dark. Alone. And you kept saying you wished you hadn't been alone. It was... it was really fucked up, Robert."
I closed my eyes. The basement. The scratching. The end.
"Valeria. Listen to me carefully." I lowered my voice. "I need you to trust me. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to do something."
"What?"
"In one week, something bad is going to happen. Really bad. I can't explain how I know, but I do. I need you to be ready. Pack a bag. Food, water, medicine, warm clothes. Keep it somewhere you can grab quickly."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Robert, are you okay? This sounds like—"
"I know what it sounds like. But please. Just do it. For me." I took a breath. "And if things go bad... if the world goes to shit... come to this address."
I gave her the location of the building I'd been preparing. The one Carla was going to help me reinforce. The one that would be our home.
More silence. Then, softly: "You're scaring me."
"I'm scaring myself. But I'd rather scare you now than lose you later."
She was quiet for a long time. I thought she'd hung up.
"Okay," she finally whispered. "Okay, Robert. I'll do it."
The line went dead.
I stood in the gym, phone in my hand, sweat dripping down my back.
Seven days.
---
Chapter 3: The Day Before (Preview)
October 14th, 2024. 11:47 PM.
Twenty-four hours.
I couldn't sleep. I'd trained for a month, studied for a month, prepared for a month. My body was different now—15 kilos heavier, mostly muscle. I could run 15 kilometers without stopping. I could do 500 push-ups. I could pick a lock in thirty seconds, stitch a wound in five minutes, and identify the first symptoms of infection before the infected even felt them.
I was ready.
But readiness doesn't stop the fear.
I looked out my window at the city below. Lights still on. People still living. Somewhere out there, Lucía was probably sleeping. Carla was probably studying. Sofía was probably with her father. Valeria was probably staring at the bag I told her to pack, wondering if I'd lost my mind.
They didn't know. Not really.
But tomorrow, they would.
Tomorrow, the world would end.
And I would be there to catch them when it fell.
---
End of Chapter 2