Doomsday survivalist: Guide to Survive!
Rule 2: equipment
Ryco stepped out of the diner with Jake, the afternoon sun biting a little harder than usual. The heat felt wrong. Too dry. Too still. He glanced at the sky while Jake stretched beside him.
"Same time tomorrow?" Jake asked.
"Yeah," Ryco said, trying to sound casual even though his thoughts were racing. "We need to start early. And buy the things I told you."
Jake made a face. "Bro, rope, camping knives, fire starters… those things? You seriously planning to drag me into the woods like some reality-show contestant?"
Ryco nudged his shoulder. "You'll live. Anyway, just buy what's cheap for now. I'll handle the heavier stuff."
Jake raised a brow. "Like what?"
"Shelter gear. Extra water storage. Tools for hunting. And maybe a real first-aid kit, not your bandaid collection."
Jake snorted a laugh. "Alright. Fine. But if we see a bear, you're bait."
"There are no bears here, idiot."
"Exactly. Which is why you're bait."
Ryco rolled his eyes but didn't push it further. The laughter between them settled into something softer—comforting in a way Ryco didn't feel he deserved. The memories of his previous life still clung to him like a second skin. Every warning sign he ignored before… he wasn't going to repeat that mistake.
They stopped at the intersection where they usually split off.
Jake gave him a lazy salute. "See you tomorrow, survival man."
"Yeah. Don't forget the list."
As Jake walked off, Ryco headed the opposite way, pulling out his phone and opening his notes app. He scrolled past the list he made earlier—food, meds, the usual essentials—and started typing a second one.
Borrow hunting gear from uncle.
Bow if possible. Gun if he's in a good mood.
Ask about arrows, strings, tools.
Start practice tonight.
He paused. His fingers tightened around his phone.
This life felt like it was speeding toward the same cliff, but this time he had brakes. This time he had a map. And he wasn't dying unprepared again.
He tucked the phone into his pocket, exhaling once before heading toward his uncle's house.
Ryco slowed when he reached the small gate, rubbing the back of his neck as the memory hit him like a slap.
"Putang—right. I still owe him money."
He let out a low groan. "This is because of that girl. She sucked me dry back then. Never again."
He clicked his tongue. "Fine. I'll just come up with something."
He knocked twice.
His aunt opened the door with her usual warm smile. "Oh, Ryco! Come in, come in. Your uncle's inside."
Before he could even greet her properly, his uncle stepped into view. "My boy! Long time no see." He pulled him into a quick hug and waved him into the living room.
Ryco sat down as his aunt set a mug of coffee in front of him. The smell steadied him a bit. His uncle settled across from him, arms resting on his knees.
"So," his uncle began, "what brings you here?"
Ryco swallowed, trying to arrange the truth in a way that didn't sound pathetic. "Unc… about the money. I don't have it yet." He lifted his eyes, steady and honest. "But I'll pay. I just need time."
His uncle just waved it off. "Kid, I know you're good for it. I'm not chasing you."
Ryco nodded in gratitude, but he wasn't here just to apologize.
"And, uh… I heard about the job offer for you in Cebu." He kept his tone casual, but every word was fueled by the heavy memories burned into his skull. "You should take it."
His uncle frowned. "That again? Ryco, the kids are studying here. It's too much trouble to uproot everyone. We'll be fine."
Ryco leaned forward, palms warm from the coffee cup. "Unc, listen. Cebu's safer. The rules there are stricter. Less… trouble. Less chaos."
He exhaled through his nose. "If anything ever goes wrong here in Manila, you'll be stuck in the worst place possible."
His uncle chuckled. "What, is Manila going to suddenly freeze over?"
Ryco paused. Then he spoke carefully. "Actually… kind of."
It took a second for the words to land. His uncle blinked. "Ha?"
Ryco pulled out his phone and showed him the news reports he collected—magnetic-field irregularities, subtle atmospheric changes, the strange jet stream shifts that hadn't reached the mainstream yet.
He explained the science simply but clearly. How the planet's magnetic field was slowly flipping. How this could shake up the climate. How winter could hit places that never had winter before.
"No snow yet," Ryco said quietly. "But it's coming. And when it does… you need to be somewhere stable."
His uncle's smile faded. His aunt drifted closer, curiosity turning into concern.
"And you're sure?" his uncle asked.
"As sure as I can be. Enough that I want you safe."
Silence stretched for a moment, then his uncle finally nodded. "Alright. I'll tell your aunt tonight. We'll take the offer."
Ryco let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. One family secured. One less future tragedy haunting him.
His uncle shifted the mood with a small laugh. "So, what do you really need? You don't visit just to talk about the weather."
Ryco cleared his throat. "Actually… I was planning to train in archery. Can I borrow your hunting bow? Or gun if you'll allow."
His uncle raised a brow. "Gun's better."
Ryco shook his head. "Guns attract attention. I don't want noise. I want something silent."
"Fair enough."
A moment later, his uncle returned with a padded case. He opened it to reveal a compact hunting bow, clean and well-maintained. Definitely pricey.
Ryco blinked. "Man… this is expensive."
"About two hundred dollars," his uncle said with a proud grin. "To keep yourself safe, you'll need that, kid."
Ryco chuckled and lifted the bow, feeling the weight settle into his palms like a promise. "Thanks, unc."
His uncle walked him to the door. "So what's next on your list?"
Ryco slung the case over his shoulder and gave a small wink. "Equipment's done. Next is meds. After that, food. A lot of it."
His uncle laughed. "You're planning something big."
"You have no idea," Ryco muttered to himself as he stepped outside—already running through tomorrow's tasks in his head, determined not to waste a single second of this second chance.
Ryco pedaled out of the subdivision, bow case strapped awkwardly across his back. The late afternoon heat pressed on him, but his mind was somewhere far colder—already running through lists, schedules, the coming storm only he knew was real.
He turned onto a quieter street and slowed down when he noticed someone kneeling by the roadside, picking up a spilled grocery bag.
A familiar outline. A familiar face.
His foot froze on the pedal.
Her.
In his last life, this girl became the leader of one of the cleanest sanctuaries in the region. Her rules were fair. Her heart was too soft. And because she kept believing people deserved chances, the worst kind of people slipped inside her gates.
That mistake cost almost everyone their lives.
She changed after that. The kindness burned out of her. She hunted threats like a machine, slaughtered anyone she thought was a danger—nearly killed Ryco once, blade already pressing on his throat—until she remembered one small moment:
A blister pack of antibiotics he shoved into her hands years before, back when her parents were sick and desperate.
That memory saved his life.
Ryco tightened his grip on the handlebars.
She doesn't deserve that ending.
In this life, he could change that. He needed leaders. Survivors. People who wouldn't break. If he could guide her early, keep her from trusting the wrong people, maybe she'd live. Maybe her sanctuary would actually stand.
She stood up with her grocery bag, brushing dust off her shorts. She didn't notice him at all, just walked toward a small green house with peeling paint.
Ryco stopped across the street, pretending to adjust his brakes while stealing a glance at the place.
So that's her house.
His chest tightened, not with emotion but with resolve. She was one of the few people who saved his skin—a lot of times. And without her help back then, he wouldn't have survived long enough to fight the tyrant.
She deserved better.
But this wasn't the time.
Making contact right now would only confuse her. He didn't have a plan ready. He needed supplies first—food, training, shelter. Then, when he was stable, when he could actually protect people instead of dragging them into danger, he'd approach her.
He memorized the street sign. The color of the gate. The crack in the pavement leading to her doorstep.
I'll come back for you. Count on it.
He pushed off on the bike again, wheels humming under him as he rode toward home. There were too many things to do and not enough time to do them.
But at least now, he wasn't fighting the end alone.
He had a second chance. And this time, he'd save the people who saved him.
Ryco pushed his bike against the railing outside the small neighborhood grocery, the kind with green sun-faded tarps and a buzzing fluorescent sign that always flickered at the wrong time. Inside, the cold air smelled like instant coffee, detergent, and that odd grocery plastic scent that clung to everything.
He wandered through the aisles with half a mind—grabbed sardines, a pack of noodles, a ready-to-eat chicken loaf. His stomach grumbled. He hadn't eaten since morning.
He turned the corner, basket in hand, just as the sliding doors hissed open again.
Three men stormed in.
Hoodies pulled low. Faces half-covered. One raised a pistol—shiny, anxious hands gripping too tight.
"Down! Down on the damn floor!" the gunman shouted, voice cracking.
The cashier froze a second too long before ducking. A toddler started crying. The manager lifted both hands, shaking.
Ryco's facial muscles twitched.
Bro… not now. Of all days? You can rob the whole city tomorrow. Just let me go home and cook noodles.
He clicked his tongue and ducked behind a snack aisle. The shelves shook from the robber kicking the promo stand near the counter. Packs of chips dropped like leaves around him.
Ryco inhaled, slow and measured.
One gun. Two knives. Their positions sloppy—rookies at best. They spread out without watching each other's backs, stepping over spilled candies and broken plastic.
Alright. Let's get this over with.
The gunman stalked past Ryco's aisle, boots crunching over scattered chips.
Ryco's eyes landed on a bag of all-purpose flour on the lower shelf.
Perfect.
He slid out silently and swung the flour with a clean, practiced throw. The pack smacked the gunman's face and detonated into a cloud of white dust. The man choked, stumbling, arms flailing as the flour coated his hoodie, hair, eyebrows—everything.
Before the cloud cleared, Ryco kicked the metal snack stand beside him. Both feet left the ground for a second. The rack tipped and crashed into the knife-wielding robber near the counter, sending crackers and canned goods raining down on him.
The third robber spotted the movement.
He charged.
Knife first.
Ryco dropped his basket and shifted—instinct taking over. His body moved like it remembered things his current life hadn't lived yet.
The blade slashed toward his ribs. Ryco angled his torso, caught the man's wrist, and redirected the strike past his side, feeling the heat of the blade skim his shirt. He drove his knee into the man's gut. The robber folded with a wheeze.
The flour-blinded gunman fired a panicked shot into the ceiling. Tiles cracked. Dust rained down.
Ryco lunged forward, planted a hand on a shelf for leverage, and swung a sharp kick into the gunman's wrist. The pistol clattered across the tiles, sliding under the snacks aisle.
The knife thug on the floor roared and pushed off the ground. Ryco pivoted, rolled under a desperate slash, and—channeling a memory of fights he should not yet remember—drove his elbow into the man's jaw. The crack echoed through the small store.
The robber dropped like dead weight.
The flour cloud settled slowly, drifting through the air like ghostly snow.
The last robber—half-buried under the toppled snack rack—finally clawed free, staggering toward Ryco with a crazed swing.
Ryco met him halfway.
"Try harder."
He blocked with his forearm, twisted his hips, and unleashed a spinning heel kick. His heel slammed into the robber's temple. The man spun midair before crashing flat on the linoleum floor, a smear of blood marking where his head bounced.
Silence.
No crying. No yelling. Just the hum of the freezers and the faint drift of flour falling onto the floor tiles.
Ryco exhaled, wiped a streak of flour off his cheek, and picked up the basket he'd dropped earlier.
He turned to the cashier—eyes wide, hands trembling over the register.
"Uh… can I pay now?" he asked.
She nodded so fast her hair tie slipped.
Ryco tossed in a loaf of bread too. Nights like this deserved more than noodles.
To be continue