Dark clouds hung low over Olongapo City. The once-bustling city, where jeepneys used to roar and street vendors filled the air with the scent of grilled meat, was now nothing but a graveyard of rusted cars and shattered glass. Empty streets stretched for miles, littered with corpses in varying states of decay. The wind carried the stench of rot and burnt plastic, mixing with the eerie silence of a world that had already died.

And yet, one man still moved through the ruins.

Richard "Ric" Ramirez knelt behind a burned-out police van, adjusting the strap of his rifle. His tactical vest was worn and stained, pockets filled with extra magazines, a hunting knife, and a small medkit. His black pants were worn and dirty, his boots caked with dried blood and mud. His beard had grown thick over the months, his once-short hair now unkempt. The Glock 19 sat snug in his thigh holster, but it was the AR-15 slung across his chest that he relied on for moments like these.

A lone survivor. The last man in Olongapo.

He took a slow, steady breath, scanning the road ahead. Six infected staggered through the debris, sniffing the air like rabid dogs. Their skin, once human, had turned a mottled gray, stretched tight over their bones. One of them was missing an arm, the torn sleeve of its uniform fluttering in the wind. Another dragged a broken leg but moved with terrifying speed whenever it caught a scent.

Ric exhaled, silent and controlled. He had learned to move like a ghost—no sudden movements, no unnecessary noise. He clutched a crowbar, ready to strike if necessary, but today, stealth was the smarter option.

Then he changed his mind.

Ric inhaled deeply. No hesitation. No fear. Only instinct.

With the silencer in place, he stepped out from cover, raised his rifle, and fired.

The first shot hit the closest infected in the forehead, sending a mist of blackened blood into the air.

The others jerked toward the sound, snarling, eyes locking onto him. They rushed forward—fast, rabid, relentless.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three more fell before they could reach him, but two were already too close. Ric adjusted his stance, switching to his suppressed Glock 19.

Thup. Thup. Double Tap.

The last one lunged at him, hands clawing at his jacket. Ric sidestepped, driving his knife into its skull, twisting it sharply before pulling out.

The body collapsed at his feet.

For a long moment, he stood still, listening. The city was silent again.

He exhaled, wiped the sweat from his brow, and continued moving.

He slipped past the wreckage, keeping to the shadows of abandoned shops. The signage for a 7-Eleven still hung overhead, though the glass doors were shattered and the aisles inside had been ransacked. Past the convenience store, the ruins of Olongapo City lay before him—his hunting ground, his prison.

* * *

It had taken him two brutal days to hike back to Gordon Heights after the docks. Two days of running, bleeding, starving, and fighting for his life.

The infection hadn't killed him. The sea hadn't drowned him. The monsters hadn't torn him apart. But they had taken everything—his family, his old life, his city.

He should've died. But he didn't.

He should've turned. But he didn't.

The bites on his arms and legs had healed, just like normal wounds. He had cleaned them, stitched them, and wrapped them in bandages. No fever. No hallucinations. Nothing.

Why? Why was he still human?

The thought haunted him every night, but he had no answers. All he knew was that he was still breathing, still standing. Still fighting.

Months had passed since then. Ric had spent every waking hour turning his family compound into a fortress.

The old Ramirez compound was once just an ordinary home—500 square meters of safety, surrounded by thick concrete walls.

Now:

· Walls reinforced with metal spikes and barbed wire.

· Solar panels installed on the rooftop, enough to power lights, cameras, and an electric fence.

· CCTV cameras covering every angle, their feeds displayed on a collection of monitors inside the main house.

· The garage converted into a weapons cache and survival storage.

Indoors, there were old memorabilia, but the house was no longer a home—it was a war room.

· The kitchen had been transformed into a makeshift workshop, with tools, weapons stacked on the counters. There was also a stockpile of canned food, water, and medical supplies.

· The dining table was buried under maps of Olongapo and Subic Bay, covered in red markings.

· The living room—once filled with laughter, now filled with ammo crates and survival gear.

His armory was in what used to be his father's bedroom, now lined with firearms scavenged from police stations, gun shops, and abandoned security outposts.

Every morning, Ric followed a strict routine—the only thing keeping him sane.

· Wake up before sunrise. Check security feeds.

· Exercise. Push-ups, pull-ups, treadmill. Staying strong was the difference between life and death.

· Maintenance. Clean his weapons, sharpen his knives, check his supplies.

· Scavenge. Ride into the city, search for food, medicine, ammunition, and fuel.

· Hunt. Kill at least a dozen of the infected before returning.

· Return before nightfall. Lock down the compound. Survive another day.

It was a life of discipline, repetition, and silence.

But it was still a life.

* * *

The Honda ADV150 stood in the garage, his most prized possession. It was a miracle he had found it in perfect condition inside an abandoned dealership. Every few days, he rode into the city, searching for supplies in places most survivors had already given up on.

Today was one of those days.

The engine revved softly as he rolled down the highway, keeping his speed low enough to remain quiet, but fast enough to get the hell out if things went south. The Subic Bay Freeport Zone loomed in the distance, its once-thriving commercial centers now skeletons of steel and shattered windows.

He had a route memorized—safe roads, danger zones, places to avoid at all costs. He knew the infected moved in clusters, drawn by sound and the scent of the living. He was also aware that Franco's men might still be out there, somewhere, although he hadn't encountered them since the last time near Kalaklan Gate.

His first stop was an old gun store along The Jungle, near the Freeport's Rizal Avenue Gate. The front window had been smashed, but Ric knew better than to assume it was empty. He entered cautiously, AR-15 raised, sweeping the shelves for anything useful.

He found five boxes of 5.56mm rounds and a combat knife. Good haul.

As he turned to leave, he heard it—a slow, dragging noise from the backroom.

Ric froze. He wasn't alone.

The door creaked open. A figure lunged.

Ric fired, but it didn't go down.

The infected was wearing a full SWAT uniform, its helmet cracked, bulletproof vest torn but still intact. It snarled, reaching for him, but Ric had already adjusted his aim.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The fourth shot went through the visor, dropping the monster instantly.

Ric exhaled, heart pounding. That was too close.

* * *

Ric slowed to a stop near a wrecked Total gas station, dismounting with his rifle raised. The smell of dried blood hit him instantly. It seemed someone had been here recently. The glass doors were covered in fresh handprints—bloody and desperate.

A low growl echoed from inside.

Ric instinctively raised his AR-15, peering into the darkened store. A single infected stood near the counter, feasting on a half-rotted corpse.

Breathe. Aim. Fire.

Tap.

The shot was precise—one bullet straight through the skull. The body crumpled without a sound.

Ric didn't waste time. He moved fast, grabbing whatever he could. Canned goods. Bottled water. A case of canned Coke Zero. He hadn't drunk soda in months, but today... today, he would.

* * *

By the time Ric returned to Gordon Heights, the sky had turned a deep orange. He locked the gate behind him, parked the bike, and carried his supplies inside.

Dinner was simple—rice, a can of spam, and instant coffee. He sat at the dining table, staring at the flickering candle, letting the exhaustion settle in.

Ric sat at the wooden dining table, the once-polished surface now covered in maps, bullet casings, and half-melted candle wax. The room smelled of gun oil, dried blood, and loneliness.

He set his rifle down within arm's reach, always within reach, and placed his simple meal in front of him. The coffee was lukewarm, bitter, but enough to keep him sharp.

The silence in the house was suffocating, broken only by the occasional crackle of his radio. It sat on the edge of the table, volume turned up, its red light flickering, searching for a signal—a voice, an announcement, anything.

But there was nothing.

Just static.

Ric clenched his jaw. It had remained that way since he came from Waterfront Road. Since he had lost them. Since that day he had lost everything.

He picked up his spoon and scooped a mouthful of rice, chewing slowly, forcing himself to swallow. The taste was salty, but it was fuel. That's all food was now—fuel to keep moving, to keep killing.

He speared a chunk of spam with his fork, mixing it with the rice. The processed meat was dry, sticking to the roof of his mouth as he chewed. Once, he would've complained about eating cold canned food. Now? He was grateful.

A deep sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back in his chair, one hand gripping the mug of coffee. He took a sip, the bitterness spreading across his tongue, grounding him in the moment.

For a long moment, he allowed himself to remember.

Cat's laughter in the kitchen.

Sam running through the halls, teasing Teo.

Teo's small hands gripping his finger.

His mother humming an old song while cooking dinner.

They were alive—somewhere out there. That was the only thing keeping him from putting a bullet in his head.

His eyes flickered to the radio again. He adjusted the frequency dial, static shifting in and out, but no voices came through.

He drummed his fingers on the table. He wasn't sure why he even bothered anymore.

The government had abandoned Olongapo. No more evacuation. No more rescue teams. The military was gone, the police were dead, and whatever remained of humanity had either fled or turned into the monsters he now hunted.

But still, every night, he left the radio on.

Just in case.

Just in case there was someone out there still breathing.

He sighed, shaking his head. Hope was a dangerous thing in this world. It could make a man weak.

Finishing the last bite of rice, Ric grabbed the Spam can, scraped the insides with his spoon, and licked the metal clean. Waste nothing. Take nothing for granted.

A sudden thud outside made him freeze.

His muscles tensed. He set his mug down carefully, fingers tightening around his Glock 19.

He listened. Silence.

Then—another thud.

Slow. Heavy. Not the wind.

Ric exhaled through his nose and stood up, the wooden chair barely making a sound as he pushed it back. He grabbed his rifle, flicked the safety off, and moved toward the window.

Through the reinforced bars, the moonlit street was empty. The perimeter remained secure.

But that didn't mean something wasn't watching.

He turned back to the radio. Still static. Still silence.

He would check the cameras. Do a final sweep of the compound.

And then he would sleep.

Because tomorrow, the hunt continued.

Tomorrow, he would kill more of them.

Tomorrow, he would remind the infected that this city still belonged to him.

And as long as he was alive, he would fight.

* * *

The air was thick with smoke and death.

Ric's vision blurred as he staggered back, his boots slipping on the slick, blood-soaked pavement of the Waterfront Road docks. The world burned around him. Fires raged along the harbor, their orange glow casting long, demonic shadows against the ruined shipping containers and half-sunken vessels.

The infected swarmed like a living tide, pouring through the wreckage—snarling, shrieking, relentless. He could hear their bones cracking, hear their claws scraping against the metal hulls of abandoned boats as they lunged at him from every direction.

But Ric didn't stop.

His AR-15 barked, spitting lead into the horde. A runner came at him—a man once, now a nightmare, its flesh torn, eyes hollow. Ric's trigger finger flexed. A single shot—straight to the skull. The creature dropped, its corpse trampled by the others behind it.

Click.

Empty.

Ric let out a snarl and swung the rifle like a club, shattering another infected's jaw before kicking it into the sea. He barely had time to breathe before another lunged at him—a woman, her ribs exposed, jaw unhinged as she shrieked.

Ric drew his Glock 19, aimed, and fired. The bullet tore through her skull, splattering blackened blood across his face.

A scream—not from the infected.

His head snapped toward the docks. The ship.

It was pulling away.

Through the smoke, Ric caught a final glimpse of Cat clutching Sam, Teo standing beside them, Martha and Angela crying behind them.

"RIC!"

His wife's voice pierced through the chaos, but the ship was already disappearing into the distance, swallowed by the sea and the night.

They were safe.

But he was not.

Ric exhaled, steadying himself. This was it.

His body screamed in pain. He had taken too many hits, his arms covered in deep gashes, his left leg dragging. He could feel the bites on his shoulder and forearm burning. The infection should've taken him by now. But it hadn't.

And he didn't have time to wonder why.

The infected surrounded him. Too many.

Ric gritted his teeth and fired until his last bullet was spent. Then, he turned to the only option left—

The sea.

He ran.

A sharp growl behind him—one of them leapt at his back. Ric didn't stop. He twisted, using the momentum to slam the infected into the dock railings before launching himself over.

The world tilted.

For a split second, he saw the fire-lit sky, the ship vanishing into the black horizon, his family safe.

Then, the ocean swallowed him whole.

* * *

Ric woke to the taste of salt and blood.

He coughed violently, rolling onto his side as waves crashed against his body. He had washed ashore, the ruins of Olongapo City looming in the early dawn light.

Everything hurt.

His wounds burned, his muscles stiff, his stomach twisted with hunger.

But he was alive.

His Glock was still holstered at his thigh, its ammo spent. His knife was strapped to his belt. His AR-15 was also swept, a few yards away from him—the only things he had left.

He was alone.

No backup. No supplies. Just him, his will to survive, and a city filled with monsters.

* * *

The streets were eerily silent. The once-busy avenues, filled with life and energy, were now graveyards of twisted cars and abandoned storefronts.

Ric moved like a phantom. Every step was careful, every breath controlled. He avoided the main roads, slipping through alleyways and ruined buildings. The infected were everywhere, lurking in the shadows, sniffing the air for anything still breathing.

Then, he saw it.

A black Honda ADV motorcycle parked outside an abandoned dealership. Untouched.

Ric sprinted toward it, scanning the area. No infected in sight.

He swung a leg over the bike, gripping the handlebars. A key was still in the ignition.

Please work.

He twisted it.

The engine roared to life.

Ric couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face.

For the first time since the docks, he had a fighting chance.

He revved the throttle, eyes burning with new determination.

This city wasn't theirs.

It was his.

And he was going to take it back.