The hum of the air conditioning in the isolated university hallway was the only constant sound, a monotonous soundtrack to the whirlwind of thoughts in Thiago's mind. He was alone with his thoughts, his head spinning, processing past mistakes, hard-learned lessons, and approaching horrors.
He thought of the mistakes of the past, of the early days of the apocalypse, when ignorance was as lethal asPlague that devastated the landMany, guns in hand, shot zombies with blind confidence, inspired by the movies and games that had shaped their perception of that kind of catastrophe. But the reality was brutally different.The deafening noise of gunshots, the crack of each shot, was like a call, a macabre siren that attracted more and more zombies, turning a small skirmish into an uncontrollable horde. It was a fatal mistake that repeated itself endlessly. By Level 3, the zombies were already more than mere targets. Their crystal-hardened flesh and dense bones absorbed small-caliber bullets like mosquito bites. Only large-caliber weapons, such as hunting shotguns or more powerful assault rifles, had any effect, and even then, precise aiming was required for the head, a constantly moving target, enveloped in a guttural growl and blind fury.
At Level 4, the situation became even more desperate. The zombies were veritable walking fortresses, their skin as tough as tanned leather, their muscles as dense as rock. Rifle shots ricocheted, bullets flattened against their carcasses without causing significant damage. At that stage, only armored vehicles, tanks, or heavy artillery could bring them down in large numbers. Thiago remembered military convoys being annihilated, tanks overturned and their occupants devoured, how human engineering, so proud of its destructive capacity, seemed so pathetic in the face of the relentless evolution ofPlague that devastated the land.
And at Level 5, the terror reached a new level. The zombies were nearly invulnerable to conventional weapons. The only thing that had any effect, the only thing that could stop the advance of a Level 5 horde, were nuclear bombs. He remembered the blinding flashes on the horizon, the mushroom cloud that rose over entire cities, the radioactive dust that covered the sky and killed what it saw.Plague that devastated the landhad not killed. A terrible price, a desperate measure that condemned vast tracts of land to desolation. But even nuclear bombs were not the final solution. Some of the strongest zombies, those that had devoured countless brains and absorbed an absurd amount of crystals, seemed to resist even atomic annihilation, emerging from the ashes, slower, perhaps, but still a latent threat, a reminder of the futility of their efforts.
From Level 6 onward, the situation was one of utter despair. There was nothing left to stop them. Guns were useless, tanks were toys, missiles were fireworks. Humanity had lost the war before it even knew it was fighting. Sometimes, the strongest, the most evolved, were simply left behind, a threat that could not be faced, only avoided. Thiago remembered dodging Level 7 Blood Red zombies, their terrifying speed, their irrational rage, and how Dark Purple and Electric Blue wielded supernatural powers that defied all logic. And Sparkling Black... the pinnacle. That was the end.
Thiago's mind was assembling an arsenal. He needed weapons that could deal with the initial levels of zombies, but that would also serve as a foundation for the future, when evolution accelerated. "We'll need all weapons equipped with silencers," he thought, the image of stealth operations, of silent kills to avoid attracting hordes, filling his mind's eye. Sound was as great an enemy as the zombies.
He visualized the weapons, every detail etched in his combat memory. First, the pistols. "Two modified Wilson Combat SFX9s with extended magazines, laser sights, and flashlight." The Wilson Combat was a precision weapon, reliable, lethal in trained hands. The extended magazine meant more shots before reloading, the laser sight, quick accuracy, and the flashlight, essential for the dark and treacherous environments the apocalypse would bring.
Then, submachine guns. "Two MP5s, with grip and silencer, laser sight, flashlight, and 2x2 telescopic sight." The MP5 was a classic, compact, versatile weapon, perfect for combat in confined spaces, such as building corridors or tunnels. The grip for control, the silencer for stealth, the laser sight for agility, and the flashlight for visibility. The 2x2 telescopic sight was a stroke of genius, allowing for increased zoom for medium-range targets without compromising peripheral vision.
And the rifle. The backbone of the arsenal. "A rifle, the best ever, the M4A1, can be swapped out and transformed from a rifle to a rifle with all the bells and whistles." The M4A1. A legend. Adaptable, precise, a workhorse. The ability to swap out the barrel made it incredibly versatile, transforming it from an assault rifle to a sniper rifle in a matter of minutes. He needed it all: holographic sights, long-range scopes, bipods, drum magazines, cleaning kits.
And the ammunition. Ah, ammunition. The scarcest, most valuable, most sought-after resource of the apocalypse. "And plenty of ammunition and clips, clips, of ammunition, because if one runs out, I won't have time to reload," Thiago thought, the urgency in his mind almost making him break out in a cold sweat. He remembered desperate moments, of having to flee because his gun was empty, of watching friends get eaten while he desperately tried to reload a clip. Not this time. He would have plenty of ammunition, preloaded magazines, ready to be inserted in a blink of an eye, each one a potential lifesaver.
But firearms, essential as they were, weren't the only answer. Hand-to-hand combat was inevitable, especially in the early days when stealth was paramount. He remembered the ineffectiveness of ordinary axes and knives against the more evolved zombies. He needed something more. Something that could cut, pierce, and dismember with lethal efficiency.
"There's also a gentleman on Fifth Avenue who forges the finest katanas," Thiago thought, the image of an old master blacksmith, with calloused hands and wise eyes, emerging in his mind. He had met him in the future, one of the few artisans who still maintained the art of forging in a world in ruins. His katanas were not mere swords; they were lethal works of art, capable of cutting through flesh and bone with frightening ease. "Let's see if he has one already in existence and ask him to just sharpen it." Time was short for a commission, but a ready-forged blade, awaiting only the master's finishing touch, would be a priceless treasure. A katana would be the perfect weapon for silent slaughter, for combat in confined spaces, for conserving ammunition.
Thiago's head was spinning, a supercomputer processing war scenarios, survival strategies, shopping lists that would make any banker faint. He knew he was asking for the impossible, but the impossible was the only way to survive. With every passing second, the doomsday clock ticked forward, and he needed to be ready. He needed everything. And he needed it now.