The Brooklyn Bridge, a marvel of human engineering and a landmark in the history of bridge construction, stretched 1,834 meters across the East River, connecting Brooklyn to Manhattan. Completed in 1883, it was the longest suspension bridge of its time and was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1964. As the two vehicles drove onto the bridge, the sight of the river and the Manhattan skyline lifted the group’s spirits slightly. Though they had just left the zombie-infested streets of Brooklyn and were heading into the even more densely populated Manhattan, they felt a small sense of progress. Every step toward their destination eased the weight on their shoulders.

  The outbreak had occurred around 7 a.m., a time when most people were just waking up and few were on the roads. The Brooklyn Bridge, though only 26 meters at its widest, wasn’t clogged with abandoned cars. The group crossed the bridge quickly, entering Manhattan.

  Manhattan, the world’s financial and commercial hub, was home to Wall Street, the Empire State Building, the United Nations Headquarters, Broadway, and Fifth Avenue. The island, just 59.5 square kilometers, housed over 1.6 million people, making it one of the most densely populated places on Earth. Its skyline, a forest of skyscrapers, was both awe-inspiring and daunting.

  Vincent was more familiar with Manhattan than Brooklyn. He had worked here for two years, climbing from a junior manager to an executive assistant. He knew the island like the back of his hand.

  As they entered Manhattan’s Lower East Side, Vincent frowned. The streets were eerily empty, with only a few scattered zombies. He picked up the walkie-talkie. "Stay alert. Something’s not right." He instinctively reached for his gun.

  The lack of zombies was unsettling. They hadn’t disappeared—something had drawn them away. Vincent’s mind raced. If the streets were empty, it meant the zombies were concentrated elsewhere, possibly in massive hordes. The thought of turning a corner and facing an endless sea of undead sent a chill down his spine. The Jeep could handle a quick escape, but the truck? It was too bulky, too slow to maneuver through Manhattan’s narrow streets.

  "Mike, stop the truck," Vincent said into the walkie-talkie, then turned to Robbie. "Pull over."

  "Why?" Robbie asked, slowing down and coming to a stop.

  Vincent gestured toward a small gun shop on the side of the road. It was an opportunity too good to pass up. With the streets nearly empty, they could stock up on ammunition without much risk.

  The two vehicles parked on the quiet street. Zombies were scarce, but Vincent wasn’t taking any chances. "Jason, open the back of the truck. You’re coming with me and Robbie into the gun shop. Laura, keep watch. Everyone else, stay in the vehicles. And don’t forget your silencers."

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  As Vincent stepped out of the Jeep, a lone zombie shambled toward him, about 30 meters away. Without hesitation, Vincent raised his pistol and fired, dropping the zombie with a single shot to the head. His aim had improved significantly, thanks to Robbie’s training.

  The three men entered the gun shop, a small, chaotic space no larger than 30 square meters. Bullets and guns were scattered everywhere, and two zombie corpses lay on the floor. Clearly, someone had been here before, taking what they could.

  "Grab ammo. We’ve got three minutes," Vincent said, checking his watch. The eerie emptiness of Manhattan was getting to him. The absence of zombies was more unnerving than their presence.

  They focused on collecting 7.62mm, 5.56mm, and 9mm ammunition—the calibers for their AK-47s, M16s, and handguns. Vincent also grabbed some 12.7mm rounds for the Barrett. Every second counted.

  "Move, move!" Vincent urged, carrying two small canvas bags of bullets toward the Jeep. Mannila and Christine quickly loaded the boxes into the truck.

  Two minutes in, Vincent called it. "That’s enough. Let’s go!"

  As they stepped outside, the sound of a kicked soda can echoed down the street, followed by a low, guttural growl that quickly grew into a chorus of snarls.

  "Zombies! A lot of them!" Old Mike’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, trembling with fear.

  Vincent froze. From the direction they had come, a massive horde of zombies poured into the street, drawn by the noise. The ground trembled under their weight as they surged forward, their grotesque forms filling the road.

  "Get in the trucks! Now!" Laura shouted, yanking open the passenger door of the truck.

  Vincent sprinted to the Jeep, tossing the bags of ammo into the backseat. Robbie and Jason bolted from the gun shop, empty-handed, and dove into their respective vehicles.

  The engines were still running. As Vincent slammed the Jeep’s door shut, the leading zombies were less than 80 meters away. The horde stretched as far as the eye could see, a wall of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth.

  "Go straight! Plow through and turn left!" Vincent barked, grabbing the walkie-talkie. "Mike, follow us!"

  It was a risky move, but Vincent had no choice. Turning around would trap the truck, and they couldn’t afford to lose it. The Jeep surged forward, crashing into the horde. Blood and viscera splattered the windshield as zombies were flung aside. The truck followed closely, its bulk shielding it from the worst of the impact.

  Ten seconds later, the Jeep broke through, skidding into a left turn onto an empty street. The truck followed, its tires screeching as it rounded the corner.

  The narrow street was eerily quiet, with no zombies in sight. Vincent breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived.

  *Bang!*

  A loud pop echoed through the street. The truck slowed, and Vincent’s heart sank. He knew what had happened before Old Mike’s voice came over the walkie-talkie.

  "We’ve got a flat tire."

  Vincent slammed his fist against the Jeep’s window in frustration. The truck came to a stop, and Vincent stepped out, rifle in hand, ready for whatever came next.