Dawn on the second day of the apocalypse painted the New York sky a sickly red, a visual omen of the hell that had spread across the city. In the hotel's main lobby, now a clean and eerily quiet space, lit only by emergency lights and a few shafts of sunlight peeking through the gaps in the heavy curtains, the family was gathered. The smell of blood, a remnant that normalcy no longer exists, mingled with the metallic, putrid aroma seeping through the service doors, a constant reminder of the brutal reality outside. The distant growl of the city, once a murmur, was now a guttural chorus of terror, punctuated by sporadic screams and the metallic rumble of collisions. Faces were tense, their eyes fixed on the windows, peering through the cracks, absorbing the sight of the unfolding chaos. Thiago, standing in the center of the hall, his weapons strapped to his body and the katana at his waist, was the embodiment of brutal calm, the leader they needed.
The hotel cleanup had been exhaustive but successful. Every floor, from the presidential suite to the lobby, lay clean and barricaded, its corridors silent, the bodies of zombies and hostile survivors removed, their crystals collected. The women in the group—Harumi, Akemi, and Yumi—had worked tirelessly, emptying rooms and suites of all the food and drinking water they could find, their backpacks now overflowing with cans, bottles, and packages. The doctors—Dr. Alan, Dr. Lena, Dr. Chen, and Dr. Ramirez—were already integrated into the team, their medical expertise invaluable in identifying pharmaceutical supplies and organizing first aid kits. They moved with surprising efficiency, their white coats, once symbols of a life of healing, now stained with dust and, occasionally, dried blood, a testament to their rapid adaptation to the new world.
With the hotel completely cleared and supplies piled up in impressive quantities in the lobby, Thiago's mind turned to the next phase of the plan: acquiring heavy vehicles. The rented van, while useful for reconnaissance, was a joke compared to the scale of his mission.
Thiago gathered the group in the main lobby, now a clean and eerily quiet space, lit only by the hotel's emergency lights. Their faces were tired, but there was a gleam of determination in their eyes. The doctors—Dr. Alan, Dr. Lena, Dr. Chen, and Dr. Ramirez—were there, watching Thiago with a mixture of respect and apprehension.
"Okay, guys," Thiago said, his voice resonating with calm authority. "The hotel is clean. We have supplies to last us a while. But we can't stay here forever. We need to move to the bunker. And for that, we need transportation. Real transportation."
He looked at the group, his eyes sweeping over each face. "Do any of you know how to drive a truck or a bus?"
A heavy silence hung in the air. Eyes averted, shoulders hunched. No one answered. Lucas, Gabriel, and Sofia looked at each other, their faces a mixture of embarrassment and helplessness. The parents, who had previously prided themselves on their driving skills, seemed dwarfed by the magnitude of the question. Hiroshi, with his serenity, simply watched, his eyes deep.
"What the hell!" Thiago exclaimed, a rare moment of frustration escaping his mask of control. He punched his palm, the muffled sound echoing in the lobby. "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 become even more promising. Cooperation was key.
"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."
With the transportation logistics underway and the arrival of Frank and his son promised, Thiago knew he couldn't stand still. The rented van, which had served as the reconnaissance vehicle until now, would be used for the first raid on the distribution warehouse. However, Thiago's experience in his past life, driving everything from heavy cargo vehicles to tanks in apocalyptic scenarios, made him uniquely capable of leading the search for the larger vehicles. He needed to assess the terrain, identify the best targets, and ensure the route was as safe as possible for the drivers' arrival.
"Okay, everyone," Thiago said, his voice firm, addressing the group in the lobby. "I'm going to head out alone now. I'm going to use the van to go to the grocery distribution warehouse. I need to check the area, see what we found there, and make sure the path is safe for when Frank and his son arrive with the trucks and buses. You guys, please stay here. Keep the perimeter secure. The doctors—Dr. Alan, Dr. Lena, Dr. Chen, and Dr. Ramirez—please get ready to organize the supplies we'll bring. Lucas, Gabriel, Sofia, and Kenji, stay alert and help maintain order. I won't be gone any longer than necessary."
Thiago's parents and the other adults nodded, their faces serious, but with unshakable confidence in Thiago. They knew he was the only one with the knowledge and experience to face the outside world. Thiago grabbed his tactical backpack, adjusted his weapons and the katana at his waist, and walked out the side door of the hotel, where the rental van waited. The silence of the lobby was broken only by the distant growl of the city, which sounded like a hungry monster lurking nearby.
Thiago took the wheel of the van, his hands steady, his eyes scanning the surroundings. He started the engine, the sound seeming too loud in the silence of the street. He carefully maneuvered out of the side street, turning onto a main avenue. The view that opened before him was a nightmare in motion.
New York lay in ruins. Distant buildings, once towering skyscrapers, were now smoking skeletons, their twisted structures belching dark smoke that rose in dense spirals, blotting out the sun. The smell of burning, of melted metal, and of something else, something organic and putrid, was suffocating, mingling with the stench of decay wafting from every direction.
The streets were a maze of crashed cars, many still ablaze, their melted bodies dripping like wax, their tires exploded in clouds of burning rubber. They lay scattered across the streets and sidewalks, some overturned, others piled in grotesque heaps, silent testaments to desperate collisions and failed escapes. The asphalt was cracked, covered in debris, shattered glass, and a dark, sticky mess that Thiago knew was a mixture of blood and bodily fluids.
And the zombies. They were everywhere. Level 0 White, staggering slowly, their eyes empty, their growls meaningless. Level 1 Pale Green, a bit faster, their movements more coordinated, their growls more menacing. And occasionally, a Level 2 Moss Green, with a brighter glow in its crystal, moving with surprising agility, their growls more guttural. They shuffled along the sidewalks, wandered the streets, some clustered around wrecked cars, drawn by the smell of blood or the sound of car alarms blaring incessantly.
Thiago drove with almost supernatural precision, his eyes scanning every shadow, every movement. He dodged abandoned cars, maneuvered between piles of debris, and, when necessary, accelerated, running over the zombies that got in his way. The sound of bodies hitting the van was muffled, but the sensation of impact was visceral. He was alone, but his mind was on high alert, every sense sharpened for survival.
The trip to the grocery distribution warehouse was a journey through hell. He passed through residential neighborhoods where houses lay in ruins, their gardens overrun by mutant plants with grasping tentacles that writhed like snakes. He saw deformed animals, dogs and cats with red eyes and sharp fangs, running through the streets, hunting the few survivors who still ventured outside. The smell of decay was suffocating, mingling with the smell of smoke and burning.
Finally, after a journey that seemed like an eternity, Thiago stopped the van on a side street, hidden by a row of abandoned commercial buildings. The distribution warehouse loomed ahead, a massive structure of concrete and metal, with loading docks and steel gates. It was a silent giant, a bastion of supplies in a starving world.
"I'm here," Thiago muttered to himself, his voice low but filled with almost feverish anticipation. He turned off the van's engine, and the silence that followed was nearly deafening, broken only by the distant roar of the city and the sound of the wind howling between the buildings. "Let's proceed cautiously. I don't know what awaits me inside."
He emerged from the van, his weapons drawn, his movements coordinated and silent. Thiago led the formation, his two Wilson Combat SFX9 pistols raised, their laser sights projecting red dots into the darkness. He moved stealthily around the perimeter of the building, his steps light, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.
The warehouse's main entrance was barricaded with stacks of boxes and pallets, but Thiago knew of a service entrance at the back, a discreet metal door that, in his future memories, had been the key to accessing the treasure the warehouse held. He moved stealthily around the perimeter of the building, his steps light, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.
He found some Level 0 White and Level 1 Pale Green zombies wandering the loading dock, drawn by the smell of food still emanating from the warehouse. Thiago silently dispatched them with precise headshots, the opaque crystals shattering soundlessly.
Finally, he reached the service door. It was a heavy metal door with a sturdy lock. Thiago grabbed his tools, a lockpicking kit he'd purchased, and set to work. The soft sound of metal being manipulated was the only sound in the oppressive silence. Within minutes, the lock gave way with a soft click.
Thiago slowly opened the door, just a crack. The smell of food, grains, and meat was overwhelming, mingling with the musty, dusty smell. The dim light that filtered through the door revealed a dark hallway, stacked with boxes and pallets stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a maze of supplies.
"It's a find," Thiago whispered to himself, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely displayed. His jaw nearly dropped. The sight was even more impressive than he remembered. "I think we'll need more trucks."
The warehouse was vast, a sleeping giant, brimming with riches. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, loaded with boxes and boxes of non-perishable foods: cans of beans, corn, tuna, soups, packages of rice, pasta, cookies, cereal. There were gallons of drinking water stacked in mountains, and piles of toilet paper, soap, and hand sanitizer. It was a haven of supplies in a starving world.
And the meat. The frozen food section was a kingdom unto itself. Industrial freezers, the size of small rooms, hummed softly, maintaining the ideal temperature. Inside them, stacks of vacuum-packed meat sat: steaks, whole chickens, sausages, fish. There were frozen poultry, cartons of eggs, dairy products. And, to Thiago's surprise, a second refrigerated truck, parked inside the warehouse, its engine off but its refrigeration system still running, powered by an internal generator. It was a mobile treasure, a perfect vehicle for transporting meat and other perishables.
Thiago smiled, a dark, satisfied smile. "There was everything," he murmured, his eyes shining with an almost childlike satisfaction. "Food, meat, poultry in the freezers, and another freezer truck." He gestured to the refrigerated truck. "With this, we can keep the meat fresh for much longer. And we have a truck for that."
He looked around the vast warehouse, his mind calculating the amount of supplies that could be stored. "And another regular truck, preferably a flatbed, for the rest of the heavy supplies. The boxes of ammunition, water, and all the other supplies we'll accumulate. Because," he said, a glint of dark humor in his eyes, "I want to loot—sorry, buy for free—at the gun shops we pass." The phrase, spoken aloud to the silence of the warehouse, was an echo of his personality, a rare moment of levity amidst the brutality.
Thiago grabbed the encrypted long-range communication radio clipped to his belt. "Frank? It's Thiago. I'm at the distribution warehouse. You won't believe what I found here. It's a find. We'll need more trucks. Much more. There's everything. Food, meat, and even a second refrigerated truck in here. Get here as quickly as possible. The route is... manageable for now. But we need more vehicles to transport all of this."
Frank's voice came through the radio, thick with surprise. "Thiago! A second refrigerated truck? That's incredible! We're on our way. It'll take a while, but we'll be there. And my son is with me. He's an experienced driver. Stay safe, kid."
He turned off the radio, Frank's voice still echoing in his ears. The transportation solution had become even more promising. Cooperation was key.