The week that followed that conversation in the university hallway was a blur of frenetic activity, a whirlwind of planning and execution that consumed every second of Thiago and his friends' lives. Time, once an abstraction, had become a tangible enemy, each tick of the clock a countdown to the end of the world. Thiago moved with frightening efficiency, his movements calculated, his mind a supercomputer processing data and scenarios. He barely slept, fueling himself with protein bars and coffee, his body fueled by adrenaline and the memory of the horrors to come.
His own mission, the search for an arsenal that could guarantee the survival of his family and friends, began immediately. Thiago knew that direct interaction with the gun shop owners was crucial. He needed to build a relationship, a trust, that would be useful not only for this massive acquisition, but for whatever might follow. Discretion was paramount, urgency an invisible burden. The New York sun, indifferent to the city's imminent fate, cast its golden glow over gleaming skyscrapers. Luxury stores displayed window displays promising opulence, people hurriedly carrying designer bags formed a human river on the sidewalks, the hubbub of everyday life a distant, unreal sound to Thiago, who felt like a ghost, moving through a dream that in a few hours would turn into a nightmare.
He chose the first gun shop carefully. It wasn't the largest, nor the flashiest, but it had an air of solidity and tradition. The bell above the door tinkled softly as he pushed it open, an almost innocent sound, belying the burden Thiago carried in his soul. The smell of lubricating oil, polished metal, and a hint of gunpowder hung in the air, a scent that, to Thiago, in his memories of the future, was as familiar as the smell of rain. The dark wood walls were methodically lined with an impressive array of hunting rifles, double-barreled shotguns, and assault rifles, all arranged with almost artistic precision. Glass display cases, illuminated by a cold, clinical light, displayed pistols and revolvers of various calibers, each resting on dark green velvet like deadly jewels. The wood floor creaked lightly beneath his shoes, echoing the sound of his footsteps.
Behind a massive oak counter, stained and polished from decades of use, stood a portly man. His hair was gray and thinning, and a thick, well-groomed mustache covered most of his upper lip, hiding the corners of his mouth. Insightful, almost piercing eyes shone behind thin-framed glasses, and his face was a map of expression lines, each line telling a story of years of close observation and, perhaps, of many untold stories he had heard and stored away. He methodically wiped a hunting rifle with a soft cloth, his movements slow and deliberate, almost ritualistic. He looked up when Thiago entered, a professional nod.
"Good morning, young man. May I help you?" The man's voice was hoarse, like the creak of an ancient door on a windy day, but at the same time it held a strangely humble and friendly quality. His eyes, however, were serious, assessing.
Thiago approached the counter, his posture calm and controlled, but beneath the surface, an almost feverish urgency pulsed through his veins. He had rehearsed this conversation countless times in his mind, every word, every pause, calculated to convey conviction without arousing undue suspicion. "Good morning, sir. I'm looking for something... specific. An arsenal, if I may say so."
The man arched a gray eyebrow, a faint smile crossing his lips behind his mustache. He set the rifle aside, leaning his elbows on the counter, his posture indicating he was ready to listen. "An arsenal, you say? It's not every day a college student comes here with such ambition. For sport hunting, perhaps? Or a target shooting competition?" His tone was jovial, but his gaze remained shrewd.
"Yes, sir. A new hobby," Thiago replied, maintaining his composure, his eyes meeting the shop owner's steadily. He knew discretion was vital, not only about the extent of his purchase, but about the actual use of these weapons. "And I like to get to the bottom of things when I dedicate myself to something. I'm putting together a rig for... well, for any eventuality." The word "eventuality" hung in the air, carrying a weight only Thiago understood. He had vivid memories of the future, where the crack of each unsilenced shot was like a macabre siren, attracting more and more zombies, turning a small skirmish into an uncontrollable horde. It was a fatal mistake that had been repeated over and over again in the early days of the apocalypse, and he was determined not to repeat it.
The shopkeeper laughed, a dry, low sound that seemed to come from deep in his chest. "Any eventuality, I understand. Well, I'm listening. What does the young man have in mind?" He grabbed a pen and notepad, ready to record.
Thiago took a deep breath, the words coming out with the precision of a military command, each item visualized in his mind, associated with a specific need and a memory of use in combat scenarios. "Two Eternal Attacker FX-3 shotguns, 12GA 24 gauge - Pro Hunters. I want both with silencers, please. And for them, one hundred boxes of ammunition, with six clips for each." He paused carefully, allowing the man to process the information, watching him write it down in a firm handwriting.
The shop owner didn't blink. Thiago's list was unusual for a "hobby," but his tone was serious, professional. "Okay. Anything else?"
"Yes. Two Hatsan Escort DF12 TS Semi-Automatic Shotguns, Cal. 12GA, 24" - 10 Shots. Also with silencers on both. And another hundred boxes of ammunition, with six clips for each."
The man stopped writing for a moment, looking up at Thiago over his glasses. A new wrinkle creased his brow. "You're really taking this 'hobby,' seriously, aren't you? Two of each, and with silencers... that's not for deer hunting, young man. It's for a forest full of bears or something."
Thiago kept his expression neutral, a faint smile almost imperceptible. "I like to be prepared for anything, sir. And discretion is important in any hunt, don't you think? We don't want to spook the prey."
The shopkeeper shrugged, a gesture that seemed a mixture of acceptance and confusion, and went back to writing. "As you wish. Next item."
"Twelve SIG Sauer P320 Carry TACOPS pistols. All complete with scope, tactical flashlight, and silencer. I want thirty-six clips for them, and one hundred boxes of 9x19mm ammunition, with one hundred rounds in each box."
The man's gray mustache twitched slightly. Twelve pistols was a considerable amount, even for a large hunting party. He seemed to be revising his initial assessment of Thiago. "You have a very large hunting party, it seems. Or you're going to assemble a small detachment."
"Let's say so," Thiago replied, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth that didn't reach his eyes. He remembered how vital cooperation was in the future, but how trusting strangers was a luxury few could afford. Only his family and closest friends, the ones he'd brought to New York, would be part of his team, his only chance of survival.
"Now, the Wilson Combat SFX9 pistols," Thiago continued, his voice a little more emphatic, a tone of respect for the excellence of the weaponry. "I want them long-barreled and refrigerated, the two I'm going to order, please. With a silencer, laser sight, tactical flashlight, and holographic sight. Everything on both. Extended clips for thirty rounds per clip. I want ten clips, and five hundred boxes of ammunition."
The shop owner whistled softly, a sound of surprise and admiration. "Wilson Combat... you're really not saving a dime. Long barrels and refrigerated rifles are for high-level competition, for elite shooters, not for the bush, young man. You're investing a small fortune here."
"I like accuracy and durability, sir," Thiago said, ignoring the insinuation about cost. "In any situation, having the best equipment makes a difference." He thought of the hours of training, the mental combat simulations, where every shot had to count. "And for the submachine guns: two MP5s. I want them with a red dot grip, with an M6 Original Red Dot Holographic Sight on both, please. With a laser, a tactical flashlight, a silencer, and extended clips for fifty rounds. I want two of the same. Twenty clips, and five hundred boxes of ammunition. Even if the pistols use the same ammunition, it's good to have more," Thiago thought, the last part almost a mumble to himself, but the shop owner heard him.
"A cautious man, I'd say," the owner commented, his eyes now fixed on Thiago, a mixture of respect and a growing, almost suspicious, curiosity. He seemed to weigh every word Thiago said, every item on his list. "That red dot sight... is an efficient choice for a submachine gun, but the ammunition volume and accessories..."
"The best for my hobby," Thiago said, his voice unwavering, the determination in his gaze hardened by the memory of past losses. He knew what lay ahead was not a hobby, but the most brutal of realities. "Now comes my baby," Thiago said, his voice a little lower, a gleam in his eyes that was not humor, but a grim, almost reverent determination. It was the pinnacle of his arsenal, the ultimate tool for annihilation from afar.
"An M4A1 rifle," he continued. "I want it with a silencer, a grip, and an ATN THOR-HD 384 2-8x25 thermal riflescope. That means a telescopic sight, infrared range, thermal imaging, and high-definition video on it, please. It also has a laser sight, a tactical flashlight, and a tripod. And if possible, I want it in matte black camouflage. I want ten drums of 200 rounds and 1,000 boxes, with each box containing 500 rounds. I want an extended barrel for this rifle, so I can attach it and turn it into a sniper rifle."
"And 5.56 and 7.62 ammunition, the same amount of ammunition for both," Thiago added, before the man could react to the monumental list. "And, of course, a complete maintenance kit for all weapons."
The shopkeeper put down his pen. The sound of metal hitting the solid wood counter echoed in the silence that fell over the shop. He removed his glasses and slowly cleaned them with the cloth he'd previously used on his rifle, his eyes now serious, devoid of any trace of humor or casual curiosity. He looked at Thiago, no longer as an eccentric customer, but as a complex, perhaps dangerous, enigma. "Kid," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, but carrying an unusual gravity, "what war are you going to with all this?"
The question hung in the air, heavy as lead, filling the space between them. Thiago knew this was the crucial moment, the point of no return. He glanced around, making sure no one else was around, just the two of them at the counter, the gleaming windows and silent weapons bearing witness to the scene. The distant hubbub of the street, the muffled sounds of the city outside, seemed strangely unreal. Thiago leaned in, his voice lowering even further, almost a conspiratorial whisper, the intensity of his past experience brimming in his eyes. "Sir," he began, his eyes fixed on the shopkeeper's, a look that carried the weight of a future only he had glimpsed. "If I tell you I have a friend at the Pentagon, and that they're stockpiling food, evacuating the most important people from the scene, and that within a week New York and the world will turn to hell... would you believe me?"
The shopkeeper didn't laugh. His once sharp eyes now widened slightly. He straightened slowly, his body tense, his hands poised on the counter. He stared at Thiago, scrutinizing every fiber of his being. "What... what are you saying?" His voice was a thread, barely audible.
"I'm saying that what I saw, what I lived, is not a nightmare, sir. It's a premonition. A chance to change what's to come. The catastrophe will come. It will be a strange mist, a rain that will bring with it thePlague that devastated the land. And it will be fast. Brutal. People won't be ready. The government... they know. But they can't say. The panic would be uncontrollable. They're preparing for the worst, protecting their own. And I... I'm trying to protect mine. And maybe, just maybe, help some who deserve a chance.
The shop owner looked at Thiago, his eyes scanning the young man's face, searching for any sign of lies, madness, or charlatanism. But all he saw was an unshakable seriousness, a conviction that went far beyond reason, a frightening maturity in such a young face. He was a man who had seen many things in his life, many stories, many conspiracy theories. But the way Thiago spoke, the urgency in his eyes, the detailed knowledge of the weapons and scenarios he described... it was different. This wasn't the narrative of a conspiracy theorist; it was the truth of a survivor.
He took a deep breath, a hissing sound, almost a groan. The weight of Thiago's words seemed to have aged him in a matter of seconds. "I... I don't know what to say, young man. This is... it's too much. But... I believe you. There's something in your eyes that tells me you're not joking. And that list of weapons... it's not from an amateur. It's from someone who knows what they're doing. Or whatwill havewhat to do." He then looked at Thiago again, his expression serious. "And the vests? You didn't mention the vests. Do you want tactical vests for this 'hunt' too?"
Thiago nodded. "Yes, sir. Eight tactical vests, please. All black. Multicam WWART SHOOTER Plate Carrier Vest, if you have them. And also eight large, 80L, black tactical backpacks. Lorben Military Camouflage Trail Camping Trekking 80L Black." He had forgotten to mention them on the initial list, a minor oversight amid the enormity of his task.
The man simply nodded, not questioning further. His pen returned to the paper, and he began scribbling, his own list, this time without any hesitation. "Ammo... plenty of ammo. And my family... yes. I'll get them out of here. Thank you, young man. Thank you for... for warning me."
Thiago felt immense relief. A life saved. Maybe more. Hope was a flickering flame, but he would feed it. "You're welcome, sir. Just be prepared." He paid for the weapons and equipment, the weight of the bags in his hands a tangible reminder of the responsibility he carried. He knew that every item, every bullet, was another chance for survival.
As Thiago left the store, the bell rang again. He looked back and saw the store owner on the phone, his voice low and serious, making the calls that could save his family. A small victory amid the impending darkness. The race against time had begun, and with each passing second, hope, once a flickering flame, grew stronger.