The night after the second day of cleanup was torment for Thiago. While the rest of the exhausted group tried to find some rest in the presidential suites, he lay awake, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The artificial silence of the floor, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioning and the muffled growl of the city outside, echoed his own restlessness. He patrolled the hallways, his Wilson Combat SFX9s holstered, his MP5s strapped to his legs, his M4A1 rifle within reach. Every shadow seemed to harbor a question, every distant noise a threat.
The question that tormented him most was the acceleration of zombie evolution. In his previous life, the first Level 4 Burnt Yellow had appearedone yearafter the Plague began. Now, in just two days, they had already encountered these aberrations, and in alarming numbers. The discrepancy was glaring, a macabre departure from the script he knew. He tried to find a logical explanation, a reason for this anomaly.
The hotel still had internet, a tenuous thread of connection to the world disintegrating outside. Thiago sat in front of a laptop in the master suite, the screen illuminating his tense face in the darkness. His fingers flew across the keyboard, searching for news, events, anything that might explain the concentration and rapid progression of the infected in New York. He browsed news sites, social media, and city event calendars, his eyes scrutinizing every detail, every piece of information that might be a piece of the puzzle.
And then he found it. The truth hit him like a punch to the gut, a revelation that simultaneously explained everything and filled him with even greater dread. The hotel, the very hotel where they were sheltering, had been an epicenter of life and throngs in the days leading up to the outbreak.
On that fateful day, the day of the meteor and the rain, the hotel was bustling with activity. There weretwo grand weddingsto be celebrated in the luxurious event rooms on the ground floor, with hundreds of guests, entire families gathered to celebrate love. In one of the conference rooms, aconvention of renowned physicians and surgeonswas taking place, attracting professionals from all over the country, brilliant minds and healthy bodies, all gathered in one place. And, to top off the scene of disgrace, in a smaller auditorium, acharismatic con artist sold self-help courses on how to make money, attracting a crowd of unsuspecting people desperate for an easy solution to their financial problems, all crowded together, listening to his empty promises.
The image formed in Thiago's mind with terrifying clarity. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, gathered in a single spot, bodies in abundance, brains fresh and plentiful. A feast for the Plague. It was the perfect setting for accelerated evolution. The zombies in the hotel weren't just more numerous; they had an inexhaustible source of food to strengthen themselves, to evolve faster than anywhere else. New York, the city that never sleeps, had become the crucible of the Plague's evolution, and the hotel, its laboratory.
Now he understood why the zombies here evolved so quickly. It wasn't his return to time. It wasn't an adaptation to the Plague. It was the density of life, the concentration of brains in a single point, that had accelerated the process. The guilt that had previously gnawed at him eased a little, replaced by a cold, calculating determination. He had underestimated the impact of the cluster. But now he knew. And with knowledge came the power to act.
Thiago thought about it, his head throbbing, his mind a whirlwind of strategies and scenarios, until sleep finally overcame him. He fell asleep in the armchair, his laptop still open, images of weddings, the medical convention, and the self-help guru mingling with the empty faces of the Level 4 zombies in his dreams.
The next day's dawn arrived, a new day of apocalypse. The sky, still an oppressive gray, cast a faint light over New York, revealing the extent of the devastation. The city's growl, though still present, seemed a little more distant, perhaps because most of the infected had already scattered, or perhaps because the distance of the 25th floor offered a bit more isolation. The smell of smoke and decay still lingered in the air, but Thiago's determination was stronger.
He woke with a start, his body aching, his mind still heavy with the thoughts of the previous night. The question of the accelerated evolution of zombies kept gnawing at his mind. He stood up, his movements slow at first, but quickly regaining their agility. He looked at the M4A1 rifle on the ground, at his pistols and submachine guns, at the katana at his waist. And at the group, which was beginning to awaken, their faces tired but with new determination.
The presidential suite, its luxurious furnishings now somewhat displaced amidst piles of supplies and weapons, was beginning to come to life. The children—Takeshi, Akari, and Hana—were already awake, their voices low but curious. John and Sarah, with little Lily, seemed a little more rested, hope, however fragile, shining in their eyes. Lucas's parents, Gabriel and Sofia, and Hiroshi's family were getting up, their movements slow but determined.
Thiago gathered everyone in the living room. The atmosphere was tensely calm, the air thick with anticipation. All eyes were fixed on him, waiting for his leadership, his instructions. He felt the weight of responsibility, but also an unwavering determination.
"Good morning, everyone," Thiago began, his voice calm and firm, cutting through the silence. He looked at each face, his eyes conveying the seriousness of the moment. "Today, we will do three things. First, we will continue cleaning the hotel. We need to ensure that all floors, even the ground floor, are safe. Second, ladies and gentlemen of the group, you will have a crucial mission: to help gather everything necessary for our survival. Food, water, medicine, clothing, anything that might be useful. You will be the eyes and hands of our supply collection."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "And third," Thiago continued, his voice taking on a deeper tone, "I'll go ahead and clear the largest levels of zombies. Levels 2, 3, and 4. You guys, with your shotguns and pistols, will focus on Levels 0 and 1. Don't hesitate. Don't take any chances. I'll lead the way. I'll wait for you on the first floor. By the time you get there, the hotel will be clear, and we'll be ready for the next step."
The faces of the men—Lucas, Gabriel, Sofia, Kenji, and their parents—were tense, but there was a grim acceptance in their eyes. They knew the task would be dangerous, but their trust in Thiago was unshakable. The women, though apprehensive, nodded, the determination in their eyes reflecting the urgency of the situation.
Thiago then turned to John, who was sitting next to Sarah, little Lily in his arms. John, the new member of the group, seemed a little paler than the others, the reality of the apocalypse still a shock to him. Thiago approached, his voice lowering slightly but remaining firm.
"John," Thiago said, holding out one of the SIG Sauer P320 pistols he'd set aside. "This one's for you. It's a reliable weapon. You need to learn how to use it. Now."
John picked up the pistol, his hands trembling slightly, the weight of the unfamiliar metal in his palm. He looked at Thiago with a mixture of fear and confusion.
"Listen carefully, John," Thiago continued, his voice calm but filled with a gravity that brooked no question. "In a world like this, there's no room for hesitation. There's no room for pity. It's kill or be killed. It doesn't matter if it's a zombie or a human. If someone threatens your life, Sarah's life, Lily's life, or any of ours, you shoot. And you shoot them in the head."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "When you shoot a zombie in the head, the brain explodes. It's a dark, almost black, putrid mass with a rotten consistency, smelling of death. It's an unmistakable sign that the creature is dead. But if it's a human... the blood will be bright red, and the brain matter will have the color and texture you know. There's no room for error. There's no room for pity. It's kill or be killed."
John swallowed, his eyes fixed on Thiago's, the brutal reality of the instruction hitting him hard. He nodded slowly, the pistol heavy in his hand.
"Now, let's get ready," Thiago said, his voice returning to a commanding tone. "Lucas, Gabriel, Sofia, Kenji, you know what to do. Parents, help us. Ladies, start organizing what we're taking. I'll go ahead."
Thiago adjusted his tactical vest, feeling the familiar weight of the Wilson Combat SFX9 pistols in their holsters, the MP5s strapped to his legs. He picked up the M4A1 rifle, its 5.56mm barrel already chambered, ready for Level 2 and Level 3. The katana, "THE KATANA THE EMPEROR'S KATANA," was securely strapped to his waist, a silent reminder of his expertise and his connection to Hiroshi.
He turned toward the suite's main door, his eyes fixed on the dark hallway. The growl of the city outside seemed to intensify, a dark invitation to battle. He was ready. The race against time continued, and the next few hours would determine the fate of them all. Thiago, the last man from the future, was about to descend into hell, paving the way for his family, for his hope.