- In the apocalypse, you're not allowed to be useless.

  - Zombies don’t care if your cardio sucks.

  - Training isn’t a punishment—it’s your second chance.

  ---

  After a week of doing absolutely nothing—besides minor tinkering, reorganizing canned food, and one incident involving Harun confusing laxatives for multivitamins—we woke up to find ourselves in hell.

  Gail's version of it, anyway.

  “Up,” he barked, knocking once on each bedroom door like a polite drill sergeant. “Roll call in five.”

  I squinted at the window. The sun hadn’t even finished putting on pants.

  Gail stood in the hallway, arms crossed like the ghost of boot camps past. “I gave you a week. That was mercy. Mercy’s over.”

  We shuffled into the common area, still in various stages of sleep-deprivation and morning-crust.

  “Starting today,” Gail announced, “you are all subject to the worst military invention of all time: structured discipline.”

  He wasn’t joking. He had a clipboard. I think he made it from scraps. I'm definitely using that as a frisbee when I get ahold of it.

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  “I’ve made a schedule. Morning physical training. Afternoon combat and throwing drills. Nighttime scavenging for situational awareness. And before you complain—yes, you get rest breaks. You’re not soldiers. You’re civilians with a bad habit of staying alive.”

  Alex rubbed her face. “I am a fighter, you know. I can take down normies and leaders.”

  “You’re reckless,” Gail replied flatly. “Last time you fought, you dislocated your shoulder, sprained your ankle, and somehow managed to get a screwdriver stuck in your boot.”

  “I didn’t get it stuck. It fell in.”

  Jules snorted. “Boot screwdriver sounds like a banned wrestling move.”

  “You’re not exempt either,” Gail told her. “You’re good with a gun. But bullets run out. Muscles don’t.”

  “Mine do,” I muttered.

  “And Harun is Harun,” Gail added.

  Even Harun nodded solemnly. “I appreciate the honesty. Am I exempted?"

  "No."

  ---

  We started with bodyweight exercises. Sit-ups, push-ups, planks, squats. Jules made it five minutes before threatening to stab Gail with a protein bar. Alex just collapsed like a wet sock. Harun followed every command like he was in gym class trying to impress a girl, only to fall over during jumping jacks and stay on the ground.

  I barely survived. The only thing I had going for me was spite.

  “Form, Elliot,” Gail called. “You’re doing sit-ups like you’re trying to escape the ground.”

  “I am trying to escape the ground!”

  After that came combat drills. Gail taught Jules how to throw punches that wouldn’t break her own wrist, and had Alex practice blocks until her arms turned pink. He tried to get Harun to swing a bat. Harun says he doesn't swing that way. We appreciate the joke, Gail didn't.

  Afternoon brought throwing exercises. Rocks, knives, sticks, sharpened forks. Whatever could be thrown, we threw. Jules actually had a good arm. Alex kept aiming for Gail “by accident.” I nailed a soda can off the windowsill and felt like a god until Gail pointed out I missed five others.

  We rested after that. Or, well, the others did. Gail allowed himself a generous ten-minute meditation in plank position while we collapsed like beached whales.

  ---

  Night came. Time for scavenging drills.

  The idea was to sneak into the half-demolished warehouse nearby, collect a flag Gail had hidden, and make it back without alerting any of the intentionally placed noise traps. Tin cans, broken glass, dangling keys, all designed to mimic a real scav run.

  Jules triggered a tripwire and almost got her foot speared by a falling rake.

  Alex kicked a bucket in frustration. “This sucks.”

  “This saves lives,” Gail replied.

  Harun tripped on a shoe.

  I actually made it to the flag and back without dying. Gail gave me a small nod like he didn’t hate me. Probably the biggest compliment I’ll get all year.

  ---

  By the end of the day, we were wrecked. Muscles sore, clothes filthy, dignity scattered like confetti. But maybe we were a little better. A little tougher.

  Gail clapped his hands. “Same time tomorrow.”

  Everyone groaned.

  Except Harun. “Do we get stickers?”

  “No.”