The New York sun, now a dull, reddish disk, barely penetrated the thick layer of smoke and soot that hung over the city, turning the day into an eternal twilight. Inside the hotel's presidential suites, the air, though filtered by makeshift ventilation systems, still carried a faint smell of burning and decay, a constant reminder of the inferno unfolding outside. The tension was palpable, a silent electricity coursing through each of the twenty-odd survivors gathered. Dinner, once a ritual of normalcy, had become a council of war, the empty plates and cooling coffee cups a mute witness to the urgency driving them. Thiago, with his weapons holstered and his M4A1 rifle leaning against the wall beside him, was the center of this new reality, his eyes fixed on each face, conveying the seriousness of his leadership.
"Okay, everyone," Thiago said, his voice resonating with calm but unquestionable authority. "Dinner was important to feed us, but now the work begins. And it won't be easy. We need to move all the supplies onto the trucks and the bus. And fast. Every minute counts."
The suite, once a luxurious retreat, became a hive of organized activity. Thiago's plan was clear and concise: a quick and efficient transfer of all the hotel's equipment, supplies, and personnel to the fleet of vehicles. The men, led by Thiago, Lucas, Gabriel, Sofia, and Kenji, would be responsible for transporting the heavier and bulkier items, while the women—Harumi, Akemi, and Yumi—with the help of Thiago's parents and Lucas's parents, Gabriel, and Sofia—would handle the smaller, more fragile items, ensuring nothing was forgotten. John and Sarah, with little Lily, would be the first to move to the bus, where the child could be kept safe and comfortable.
The process began with almost feverish energy. The doors to the suites that served as storage rooms were thrown open, revealing stacks of ammunition boxes, tactical vests, backpacks, water jugs, canned and dehydrated foods, and a variety of medical and survival equipment. The smell of metal, rubber, and new fabric filled the air, mingling with the putrid aroma seeping in from outside.
Thiago, with his two Wilson Combat SFX9 pistols in hand and the M4A1 rifle slung across his back, led the effort. He moved with almost choreographic precision, his muscles tense and defined beneath his clothing, each movement calculated and efficient. He picked up heavy boxes of ammunition, one in each arm, and carried them into the hallway, where Lucas and Gabriel were waiting to transport them to the service elevators. The boxes' weight was considerable, but adrenaline and the urgency of the situation drove them forward.
Lucas and Gabriel, though still feeling the fatigue of the previous days, worked with renewed determination. They carried stacks of tactical vests and backpacks, their faces tense but their movements fluid. Sofia, with her agility, handled the boxes of medicine and electronic equipment, ensuring nothing was damaged. Kenji, Hiroshi's son, a robust and practical man, carried the water jugs with impressive strength, his muscles contracting under the strain.
The parents, though older, were not far behind. Thiago's father, with his Eternal Attacker shotgun slung over his shoulder, carried boxes of dehydrated food. Lucas's father, with his Hatsan Escort, stacked bundles of tents and sleeping bags. Gabriel's father and Sofia's father, with their own guns, helped push the hotel's luggage carts, now overflowing with supplies. Hiroshi, with his usual calm, oversaw the organization of the more fragile items, like the foldable solar panels and high-capacity water filters, ensuring they were handled with care.
The women—Harumi, Akemi, and Yumi—carrying empty backpacks, moved with surprising efficiency, collecting the smallest but essential items. They searched the rooms, finding packages of cookies, cans of soda, bottles of mineral water, and even some clean clothes and blankets that might be useful. Each item was carefully packed and transported to luggage carts, which were then taken to the service elevators.
The descent in the service elevators, which Thiago had deactivated for the presidential floor the night before but which were now under his control, was swift and efficient. They descended the forty-nine floors in a matter of minutes, the soft sound of the elevator motors contrasting with the chaos unfolding outside. When they reached the ground floor, the hotel lobby was a scene of desolation. The lights were flickering, some of the glass was shattered, and the smell of smoke and decay was strongest here, almost unbearable.
The fleet of vehicles was parked on the side street, an imposing, silent convoy under the red, smoky sky. The four refrigerated trucks, the three regular trucks, Frank's gigantic semi-trailer, and the tour bus. It was a sight that filled Thiago's chest with a grim satisfaction. They were ready.
Moving the cargo from the hotel to the trucks and bus was a meticulous operation. The refrigerated trucks were opened, revealing their icy interiors, ready to receive the meat and dairy products Thiago had found in the warehouse. The regular trucks, with their spacious trunks, were opened to receive the non-perishable food, water, ammunition, and equipment. Frank's bottomless truck swallowed boxes and pallets with ease, and the bus's luggage compartment, which extended across the entire lower part of the vehicle, was perfect for suitcases and lighter, personal items.
John and Sarah, with little Lily in their arms, were the first to board the bus. The child, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, dozed gently, her innocent little face a balm to their weary souls. Harumi and Yumi helped them settle in, making sure they had blankets and some toys for Lily. The bus's interior, though spacious, was a contrast to the luxury of the suites, but safety and the promise of a future were more important.
With each box loaded, each gallon of water stacked, the feeling that they were fighting for their lives became more real. Sweat dripped down their faces, but urgency drove them on. The rescued truckers, Daniel and the other six, worked tirelessly, their movements quick and efficient, their eyes fixed on the task at hand. They were experienced at loading and unloading, and their expertise was invaluable.
Thiago, with his inexhaustible energy, was everywhere at once. He supervised the loading, instructed the truckers on how to stack items to maximize space and ensure cargo security, and occasionally helped move the heaviest boxes. He moved with almost choreographic precision, his muscles tense and defined beneath his clothes, each movement calculated and efficient. Sweat dripped down his face, but his eyes remained focused, his determination unwavering.
The sound of boxes being dragged, pallets being moved, voices giving instructions filled the yard. It was a sound of hard work, of collective effort, of a community coming together to survive. Time seemed to fly, and in less than three hours, the refrigerated trucks were full of meat and perishables, their refrigeration systems humming gently, keeping the cargo cool. The regular trucks were packed with boxes of non-perishable food, gallons of water, and stacks of ammunition. Frank's truck was packed, with plenty of room for the supplies waiting at the hotel. And the bus's luggage compartment was packed with suitcases and personal items. It was an impressive amount of supplies, enough to feed and protect a small army.
Finally, when the last box was loaded and the last compartment of the bus was closed, Thiago looked out at the fleet of vehicles. It was an imposing sight, a convoy of survival, a promise of hope in a desolate world. He felt immense relief, mixed with a hint of exhaustion. The first phase of the evacuation was complete.
Thiago approached Frank, who was leaning against the side of his massive truck, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a cloth. Frank's face was dirty, but his eyes shone with a mixture of weariness and admiration. He had seen Thiago's efficiency, the way he had orchestrated the operation, and the determination that drove him.
"Frank," Thiago said, his voice low but filled with new energy. "All set. But before we go to the bunker... I have an idea."
Frank raised an eyebrow, a slight smile crossing his lips. "An idea? After all this, you still have ideas, kid? I'm listening."
Thiago leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the intensity of his past experience shining in his eyes. "On the way to the bunker, there are three huge gun shops. I visited them this week. And I warned the owners. Some believed me. Some didn't. But they all have arsenals. And I need more. Much more. For what's to come."
Frank looked at Thiago, his eyes wide. "You're talking about... looting gun stores? Thiago, that's... that's a huge risk. What if the owners are there? What if they call the police? Or worse, what if they have zombies inside?"
"It won't be a looting, Frank," Thiago replied, his voice firm. "It will be a resource gathering. And I know the owners are there. I warned them. Some of them are trapped, asking for help in the WhatsApp group I created. They are on the route to the bunker. We can rescue them. And, at the same time, get what we need. It will be a trade. Help for supplies. And for a chance to survive."
Frank thought for a moment, his eyes fixed on the apocalyptic landscape unfolding in the distance. He'd seen the chaos, the brutality of the world outside. He'd trusted Thiago until now, and the young man had proven himself right in every one of his premonitions. And the idea of more weapons, more ammunition... was tempting.
"What if we find something we didn't expect?" Frank asked, his voice hoarse but with a hint of curiosity. "Like, a tank? Or a helicopter?"
Thiago laughed, a dry, low sound that seemed odd amid the chaos. "If we make a find we weren't expecting, Frank, then that's a bonus. But the priority is the weapons, the ammunition, and the survivors. And, of course, discretion. We don't want to attract unwanted attention."
Frank nodded, a dark smile crossing his lips. "Okay, kid. You convinced me. Let's go shopping. But you lead. And I want first pick of anything we find."
"Done," Thiago said, extending his hand to Frank, who shook it firmly. It was a pact, an alliance forged in necessity and trust.