– It’s good to branch out and learn different skills.
– But if you’re really, really bad at it—like “you’ll die trying” kind of bad—then maybe, just maybe, find something else to excel at.
– Or cook. Cooking helps morale. And reduces the taste of regret.
---
“Okay, so no one tell him it’s a test,” I said, leaning over the table as the four of us gathered in the war room. By “war room,” I mean the break room that still had a busted coffee machine and a stack of broken chairs in the corner.
“He’ll overthink it,” Alex agreed.
“He’s already a dumbass,” Jules said. “If he overthinks, he might just collapse from the pressure.”
“Like a flan in a cupboard,” I added.
Gail didn’t say anything. He just stared at the map like he was waiting for Harun to spontaneously combust.
We didn’t have a formal “probationary policy” set up at The Fortress yet, but Harun was our first new person since the four of us banded together. So we decided—without telling him—that we’d run him through a quiet gauntlet of trials. Like a reverse job interview where instead of trying to impress your boss, you’re trying not to die. Or get kicked out for being secretly evil.
First up: Cooking. Because food is survival, and no one wanted to eat Gail’s MRE Spaghetti? ever again.
“I’m going to see if he can cook something that won’t make me consider starvation,” Alex said, holding a frying pan like it owed her money.
---
DAY ONE: COOKING TRIAL
Alex handed Harun a mix of canned goods, powdered ingredients, and mystery meat (it's was corned chicken and corned beef that Alex mixed into a bowl). Harun accepted the challenge like he was stepping onto Iron Chef: Apocalypse Edition.
He didn’t brag. Didn’t even ask too many questions. Just got to work humming some tune and chopping with terrifying focus.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
An hour later, we were handed bowls of what he called “Potato-goulash hybrid with improvised seasoning.” It smelled decent. Looked like something from a college dorm kitchen, but edible.
Alex tasted it. Blinked.
“This is… not bad.”
“Like on a scale of edible to actual food?” I asked.
“Closer to food.”
Which, honestly, was high praise from her. I caught her scribbling something on her notepad later. I swear I saw the words ‘backup cook’ and a very tiny heart.
Gail didn’t complain. He just quietly shoved his MREs to the back of the pantry.
---
DAY TWO: COMBAT TRIALS (UNANNOUNCED)
Gail took the lead here.
First, he handed Harun a knife and threw a watermelon in front of him.
Harun missed.
Three times.
He didn’t look embarrassed—just puzzled.
“You ever thrown anything before?” Gail asked.
“A tantrum, once,” Harun said with a smile. “Age seven. Didn’t land either.”
Next up, hand-to-hand combat. Gail suited up in light gear and told him to try to pin him.
What followed was a lot of flailing. Not panicked flailing, more like theoretical martial arts — like Harun had seen a few movies and figured that counted.
To be fair, he did manage to roll out of a grapple once. Gail gave a grunt that might have been approval… or a back pop.
Finally, we took him out to the firing range. Harun held the pistol like it was made of eggshells. He hit the target… once. In the leg. The rest killed the air surround the target.
“I never said I was good at this,” he told us cheerfully.
Gail didn’t even sigh. He just quietly switched Harun’s job list from “Potential Fighter” to “Definitely Not Fighter.”
---
DAY THREE: THE LOOT & RUN
Jules and I told Harun we were doing a simple supply run. Canned goods, maybe some batteries. Just another Tuesday. Back into the closest mall. We'll keep going till we looted the whole place dry.
What we didn’t tell him: we’d be watching how he moved, planned, and improvised.
Turns out?
The man was a gazelle with anxiety.
We hit an old pharmacy first. Harun walked straight in, crouched low, barely made a sound. Spotted a tripwire before either of us did. Deactivated it with ease. I have no idea how.
He picked the shelves clean in five minutes, prioritized actual meds over expired vitamins, and stuffed it all in his pack with a surgeon’s precision.
Then came the runners.
Three of them burst in from the alley, jaws snapping.
Jules stood ready, hand on machete.
Harun?
He bolted.
Vaulted a trash can, slid under a broken fence, and led them into a pit trap someone else had left behind. He got back to us ten minutes later, winded but grinning.
Bloodied nose, but smiling.
“You didn’t say there’d be cardio,” he said, hands on his knees.
"What in the hell happened to you?" Jules asked.
"I slipped and hit my face to the wall. But I'm good! I got them to chase me." He says.
“You outran them,” I said, impressed.
“Zombies don’t have bills to pay. I do. I run fast.”
Back at The Fortress, he pulled out an accurate hand-drawn map of the surrounding blocks. Had shortcut routes, dead zones, even escape options. The dude was practically a human GPS.
While I was fast and efficient in combat, he was the same but in navigating. (Yes, it's a humble brag, fight me.)
---
Later That Night
The four of us sat in the upstairs commons, our unofficial meeting spot. Floor still creaked. The couch still smelled like burnt socks. But it was home.
“He’s useless in a fight,” Gail said bluntly. “But he’s not dead, so clearly he knows how to avoid them.”
“He’s better than me at looting,” Jules admitted. “And I hate saying that.”
“He’s got a sharp eye,” I added. “Map work’s top-notch. And he’s not afraid of running. That’s half the battle.”
“I’m just glad I don’t have to cook every night,” Alex said, stretching. “If I had to eat another can of meat mush, I was going to cry.”
None of us said it outright, but we all knew what this meant.
Harun was staying.
