The rental van, with Thiago at the wheel, hummed softly as he maneuvered it up the steep incline of the hotel's underground parking garage. The dim beams of the headlights cut through the damp darkness, revealing the mold-stained concrete walls and the lingering smell of stale gasoline and dust. The putrid stench seeping through the surface vents grew more intense with every passing meter, a constant reminder of the hell outside. Inside the van, the silence was heavy, fraught with the frustration and disillusionment of the fruitless search for suitable vehicles. Lucas, Gabriel, and Sofia sat in the backseat, their faces tense in the flickering light of the tactical flashlights attached to their vests, mirroring Thiago's disappointment.
Thiago tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the ramp leading to the surface. The reality of the situation was a knot in his stomach. He turned slightly to his friends in the backseat, his voice hoarse but with a hint of urgency. "Okay, guys. The garage didn't have anything good enough for what we need. No car can handle what's out there, much less the weight of everything we're going to carry. We'll have to go outside and look for it. But first... do any of you know how to drive a truck or a bus?"
A thick, awkward silence hung in the air. The only sound was the van's engine and the distant growl of the city. Lucas, Gabriel, and Sofia looked at each other, their shoulders slumping. No one responded. Their faces, previously tense, now displayed a mixture of embarrassment and helplessness.
"What the hell!" Thiago exclaimed, a rare moment of frustration escaping his mask of control. He punched the steering wheel, the muffled sound echoing in the small space of the van. "This is a serious problem. We can't move everything we have on foot. And we can't move all of us. We need drivers."
Thiago grabbed the encrypted long-range radio clipped to his belt and put on the headset. "Does anyone know how to drive trucks or buses?" he asked, his voice calm but with a hint of urgency, relaying the message to the few contacts he'd made in his WhatsApp group.
There was a brief silence, followed by a hiss. Then the voice of Frank, the owner of the first gun shop, came over the radio. "Thiago? It's Frank... from the gun shop. I... I heard your call on the radio. You... you were right, kid. It's hell out here. I... I can drive a truck. I have a heavy-duty vehicle license. And my son, he can drive a tour bus. He was a tour driver before all this. Why do you ask? Do you... do you need help?"
A smile of relief, the first in a long time, crossed Thiago's lips. "Frank! Yes! It's a blessing you're on the radio. We need you. We need trucks and buses. To transport everything we've collected here at the hotel, and to get us all to safety. And to pick up the other survivors and their supplies."
"Okay," Frank replied, his voice steady. "Where are you? And what do you need?"
"We're at the hotel, Frank. And we need two trucks. A refrigerated truck, for the meat and other perishables. And a regular truck, preferably a flatbed truck, that can handle everything we'll be doing next, for the ammunition crates, water, and all the other heavy supplies," Thiago explained, his voice growing more confident. "From my experience, I know that refrigerated trucks and flatbed trucks are often found in wholesale market areas, like the one on the block behind the hotel. And hotels often have tour buses for excursions, usually parked in less visible areas so as not to interfere with the flow of customers. We need two tour buses. The ones that make less noise and are more durable."
"Understood," Frank said. "We're on our way. It'll take a while, but we'll be there. And my son will come with me. He's an experienced driver."
"Great," Thiago replied, immense relief flooding his chest. "Keep a low profile. And watch out for the zombies. They're faster and more aggressive now. And the other survivors. Not all of them are friendly."
He turned off the radio, Frank's voice still echoing in his ears. The transportation solution had come from where he least expected it. Cooperation was key.
"Okay, guys," Thiago said, turning to the group, a gleam of determination in his eyes. "We have drivers on the way. Now, it's time to bring things up. Let's start the elevators. It'll be faster this way, now that the hotel is clean."
He led the group to the elevator control panel, which he had disabled the night before. With swift, precise movements, he reactivated the systems, the familiar hum of the elevators returning. The sound was loud, but now, with the hotel cleared and the perimeter secure, the risk was minimal.
The transport operation began. The women, with their empty backpacks, and the men, with their weapons drawn, ascended to the upper floors. The elevators, now working, expedited the process. Boxes and boxes of ammunition, canned food, gallons of water, medical equipment, tactical vests, backpacks—everything they had collected and stored in the presidential suites and on the clean floors was methodically brought to the lobby.
The lobby, once a space of luxury and opulence, was now a logistics center, filled with piles of supplies, a mountain of resources for survival. The crystals, separated by color, gleamed in transparent bags, a potential fortune.
Thiago felt the weight of responsibility, but also an unwavering determination. The night had been long, and the dawn had brought hell. But this time, they would be ready. And they wouldn't be alone. The race against time had reached its climax, and the next few hours would determine their fate. The hotel, once a refuge, was now an operations center, and the family, once just a group of loved ones, was about to become a survival unit, forged in the fires of the apocalypse, with a new and monumental mission ahead: finding the vehicles that would take them to true safety and the reunion of all their allies.
"We'll need four drivers," Thiago said, his voice firm and clear, addressing the group gathered in the lobby, which now resembled a makeshift warehouse, with piles of boxes and bags everywhere. "Two for the trucks and two for the buses. The buses won't just be used to transport people; they'll also be crucial for carrying some of our supplies. They're spacious and quieter than many heavy vehicles, which is vital for discretion in a world where noise attracts the attention of the infected."
He glanced at the pile of ammunition boxes, water jugs, and canned food piling up in the lobby. "We'll have pounds and pounds of meat from the hotel freezers, and boxes and boxes of ammunition and food we already have upstairs. A car or van wouldn't be enough. We need a refrigerated truck for the meat and a regular truck, preferably a tractor-trailer, for the rest of the heavy supplies. And the two tour buses will not only transport us but also give us extra space for more supplies and for the other survivors we'll pick up at the gun stores."
The determination in Thiago's eyes was contagious. "This is how we'll ensure everyone's survival and the transportation of everything we need," he concluded, his voice thick with conviction. "Finding these vehicles is our next priority. And with Frank and his son on the way, we have a real chance of succeeding."