The New York sunlight, once a reminder of the carefree life he'd lost, now felt like a relentless spotlight, exposing the urgency of every second. "This time, I won't let my parents, my sister, and my roommates die," Thiago thought to himself, the phrase echoing in his mind like a sacred oath. Determination set his jaw, transforming the initial anguish into a cold, calculating resolve. He had seen their deaths, felt the pain of their loss, the guilt of being helpless. Now, he had a chance. One week.
He began making lists. Not mental lists, but real, tangible lists, scribbled on a battered notebook he found in his desk drawer. The ballpoint pen, such a banal object, felt heavy in his hand, a potential instrument of war. The first category: Weapons. "I need weapons, both firearms and bladed weapons," he wrote, his handwriting hurried but legible. The ink smeared slightly in places, a reflection of the moisture on his palms. He remembered the brutality of combat, the illusion the movies sold. "Don't think cutting off a zombie's head is as easy as it looks in the movies," the memory of his future whispered in his mind, its voice thick with mockery and pain. It was difficult for anyone, even the strongest. He saw again, with sickening clarity, the scene that would haunt him forever: one of the rich, spoiled jerks on campus, a guy who had never broken a sweat in his life, wielding a bright red fire axe, its blade glinting in the dying sun of the apocalypse. The zombie, a Pale Green Level 1, staggered slowly, its decaying flesh exuding a sweet, putrid smell. The boy, with a shout of bravado, attempted a cinematic swing, aiming for the head. The axe struck the infected's shoulder, sinking into the soft flesh. The zombie, with a surprisingly quick snarl, turned. The boy's eyes, previously filled with arrogance, widened in sheer terror as the monster's jaws closed around his neck. The screams. Oh, the screams. They were soul-rending, high-pitched, desperate, cutting off abruptly in a wet gurgle. The scene repeated itself, a hellish loop in his mind, a constant reminder that reality was far crueler than any fiction.
The list went on: ammunition, medical supplies, non-perishable food, drinking water, water filters, tents, sleeping bags, sturdy clothing, combat boots, flashlights, batteries, two-way radios, detailed city and state maps, survival kits, ropes, hunting knives, hatchets, folding shovels. The list was exhaustive, but each item was a lifeline, a chance to survive. And all of this required money. Lots of money.
Thiago picked up his phone, a state-of-the-art smartphone that would soon be nothing more than dead weight, with no network, no communication, except perhaps to listen to preloaded music. He dialed his home number, his parents' number in Maryland. Each ring of the doorbell felt like an eternity, a sound stretching endlessly into the void before the end of the world. Thiago's heart pounded in his chest, a war drum in his very flesh. He remembered the last time he'd spoken to them, a hurried call, full of empty promises of "everything will be okay." It wasn't.
The phone was slow to answer. Anxiety gnawed at Thiago, every second a torment. And when it finally did, it was his father's voice, deep, a little tired, but filled with a familiarity that made him falter. "Hello?" The simple word shattered the barriers Thiago had erected around his emotions. "Dad!" Tears fell like rain, hot and uncontrollable, streaming down his face, wetting the phone screen. He hadn't cried in years, not since hope had died for his future. But now, the sight of his parents alive, his father's voice, was too much to bear.
The father on the other end of the line noticed something. Thiago's voice, normally calm and controlled, was choked with a pain and desperation that didn't match the image of his college-age son. "What's wrong, my son? Are you okay? Did something happen?" The concern was palpable in his voice, an invisible thread of love that spanned the miles.
Thiago swallowed, trying to control his voice, trying to find the right words, the words that wouldn't reveal the deadly secret. "Father," he said again, his voice still cracking, but with a new firmness, "do you trust me?" The question hung in the air, carrying a weight his father couldn't comprehend.
On the other end, there was a pause. A silence that seemed to stretch on. Thiago could imagine his father, a practical man, an engineer, frowning, trying to grasp the gravity of this unusual request. "Of course I trust you, son. I always have. But why do you ask? What's going on?" His father's voice was more serious now, the concern deepening.
"Put it on speaker, Dad. I need to talk to Mom and Bia too," Thiago asked, his voice more controlled now, but still with an unmistakable urgency. He heard the muffled sound of the phone being adjusted, and then his mother's soft voice, full of tenderness and alarm. "Thiago? My love, what's wrong? Why are you crying?" And then the teenage, slightly sleepy voice of his fifteen-year-old sister, Beatriz. "Thiago? Is everything okay? Did something happen at college?"
Thiago closed his eyes for a moment, the image of their faces, so alive and carefree, filling his mind. He remembered their end. His mother, trying to protect Bia, both devoured by a Level 5 Dull Orange zombie, her screams mixing with the creature's growls. His father, who had sacrificed himself to give him a chance to escape, facing a pack of Level 6 Red Orange zombies with only a kitchen knife. He couldn't let that happen again.
"I need you to listen to me very carefully," Thiago began, his voice now a mix of desperation and authority. "I can't explain everything right now, not over the phone. It's... it's something very serious. Something that will change our lives forever. I know it sounds crazy, but I need you to trust me completely, like you never have before." He paused, taking a deep breath, feeling the weight of the secret suffocating him. "I need money. Lots of money. And I need it now. The only way I can see is... to mortgage the house."
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Thiago could almost hear the shock, disbelief, and fear settling in his family's hearts. His mother was the first to react, her voice a disbelieving whisper. "Mortgage the house, Thiago? Are you serious? What happened? Are you in trouble? Debt? Gambling?" Her concern was a sharp knife in his chest.
"No, Mother! It's not a debt, it's not a game. It's much bigger than that. It's... it's for our safety. For the safety of all of us," he replied, his voice rising slightly, urgency brimming. He remembered the Mysterious Entity, the beams of light that would soon tear through the sky, the crystals that would be the currency of a new world. He needed seed money, a head start. He needed to buy skills, equipment, supplies before chaos descended and prices became prohibitive, or items impossible to find.
"Thiago, you're scaring me," his father said, his voice calm but firm, trying to maintain his composure. "Explain yourself. We can't just mortgage the house without knowing why. It's our home, it's all we have."
Bia, the sister, who had remained silent until then, finally spoke, her voice small and frightened. "Thiago, are you... are you sick? Do you have a fever? What's going on?"
Thiago closed his eyes again, the image of the fire axe and the spoiled boy's scream flashing through his mind. He couldn't fail. He couldn't let them die again. "I know it's hard to understand. I know it sounds insane. But I swear to you, on my life, that this is to save us. To give us a chance. I... I had a nightmare. A very real nightmare. About the future. And I know what will happen. I know that in a week, everything will change. The world as we know it will end." The words came out in a breath, a desperate outburst. He was on the edge, balancing on a tightrope between truth and secrecy.
There was a long silence on the other end. Thiago could feel the tension, the disbelief mixed with love and concern. He knew he was asking for the impossible. Mortgaging the house was a huge sacrifice, a risk no sane family would accept for a "nightmare." But he had no choice. He needed that money to acquire the System's initial resources, to begin preparing, to have a fighting chance against the Level 0 White zombies that would soon emerge, and those that would evolve into Pale Green, Moss Green, Greenish Yellow, Burnt Yellow, Dull Orange, Orange Red, Blood Red, Dark Purple, Electric Blue, and Sparkling Black. He needed Mana, skills like Fire Magic, weapons that could cut through the tough flesh of evolved animals and pierce the skin of rhinoceros-like tigers. He needed to survive the sea and sky transformed into death zones.
Finally, his father's voice broke the silence, softer now, but still with a hint of uncertainty. "Son... you've never asked us for anything like this. You've always been so responsible. If you say it's for our safety... If you swear on your life..." There was a heavy sigh. "Your mother and I will talk. But... this is a big deal, Thiago. A big deal."
"I know, Dad. I know. And I would never ask if it wasn't absolutely necessary. I love you. And I will protect you. This time," Thiago promised, the last words barely audible, a whisper to himself. He heard the click of the call ending. The phone in his hand felt lighter, but the weight of the world on his shoulders had increased exponentially. The first battle wouldn't be against zombies, but against the disbelief and love of his own family. And he knew that this battle, though bloodless, was as crucial as any other.
"Dad, one more thing!" Thiago exclaimed, before the line went completely dead. His father's voice returned, a little more impatient. "What else, Thiago? We're worried here!"
"Dad, we're going to live for a week in the best hotel in New York, in the presidential suite. You, me, and my roommates' families. I'm going to tell them. You might think I'm crazy, but I'm not. Trust me. That's the only thing I ask. Do it today, Dad. Please!" The urgency in Thiago's voice was almost a scream, a desperate plea.
There was an even longer silence on the other end. Thiago could feel his father's mind working, weighing the absurdity of the request against his son's unusual seriousness. "The best hotel? The presidential suite? Thiago, do you know how much that costs? And your friends' families? What's going on, son? You're getting into something very big." His father's voice was tense, bordering on irritation.
"I know, Dad! I know! But it's for our own good! It's for our safety! Please, Dad, do this! I'll explain everything when you get here. But I need you to be safe. And I need them to be safe too. Please, Dad!" Thiago insisted, his voice almost pleading.
Thiago's mother, who was listening on speakerphone, intervened, her voice soft but firm. "Honey, if Thiago is asking like this... He's never been one to ask for things without reason. If he says it's for our safety... Let's do this, okay? At least for a week. We can use the mortgage money for it, if that's what it takes."
His father sighed, a heavy sound Thiago could clearly hear. "Okay, Thiago. Okay. I'll see what I can do. But you owe me an explanation, and a big one. What about your friends? Will they believe this story?"
"They will. I'll make them believe. I love you, Dad. Mom. Bia," Thiago said, the words laden with all the emotion he'd suppressed for twenty years. He heard the click of the call ending. The phone in his hand felt lighter, but the weight of the world on his shoulders had increased exponentially. The first battle wouldn't be against zombies, but against the disbelief and love of his own family. And he knew that this battle, though bloodless, was as crucial as any other.