Whether by coincidence or fate, Vincent and Brooke, despite taking different routes out of the sewer system, emerged at the same location. This was likely because this particular street was one of the few safe exits not overrun by zombies.

  In the room by the window, aside from Brooke, there was a young black man who had been idly observing the outside with a telescope and noticed the sewer cover being opened. Also present was a middle-aged man sitting in the northwest corner of the room. Originally, there were four of them, but one had died along the way.

  Hearing the young man's call, Brooke quickly stood up from the bed, grabbed his freshly cleaned pistol, and moved to the window.

  "It's them, the group with the modified vehicle," the young man said as Brooke approached. He had seen them—Vincent and Robbie emerging from the sewer, followed by others. The zombies on the street, though few, immediately noticed and began shambling towards them.

  Robbie fired several shots, taking down a few zombies. The rest were too far to pose an immediate threat. "Clear! Hurry up, everyone out!" Vincent urged, and soon the entire group was on the street, scanning their surroundings before heading north.

  From the top floor of the apartment building across the street, Brooke and his two remaining men watched through half-drawn curtains.

  "Boss, your uncle is with them, and the women too. Should we...?" The young man made a slashing motion across his throat, suggesting an ambush. Brooke, tall and lean, frowned slightly, then shook his head. "There are too many, and gunfire will draw the zombies. Let's consider them lucky... for now." His voice trailed off as he gazed out the window, lost in thought.

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  On the street, Vincent's group moved cautiously, stopping near a corner where Robbie checked for threats. "Clear!" he signaled, and they turned onto a busier street. A few hundred meters down, they spotted an open convenience store, its interior ransacked.

  "Here! Follow me!" Vincent pointed, and the group quickly entered, pulling down the security shutter behind them. The store was dimly lit, with overturned shelves and scattered goods. They caught their breath, leaning against counters and walls.

  The convenience store, like much of Manhattan, had been looted multiple times. With millions of zombies and tens of thousands of survivors, food had become the most precious resource. Vincent's group knew they couldn't stay long but needed to replenish their supplies.

  "Grab some travel bags and pack what you can. We're moving soon," Vincent ordered.

  Half an hour later, they were in a luxurious suite on the twelfth floor of a nearby apartment-hotel. After clearing the room of two zombie corpses, Vincent declared it safe. "We'll stay here tonight. Rest up; we'll figure things out tomorrow."

  The suite, though stained with blood and broken glass, still retained some of its pre-apocalypse elegance. The group cleaned up, changed into clothes scavenged from a nearby store, and gathered in the living room to eat and talk. All except two.

  In the cleanest bedroom, Christine lay face down on the bed, her jeans and underwear pulled down to her thighs. Vincent tended to her wound, which had reopened during their journey. "Does it hurt?" he asked softly as he applied disinfectant.

  "Yes," Christine whimpered, her face flushed.

  "I'll be gentle," Vincent reassured her.

  After bandaging her wound, Vincent prepared to leave, but Christine grabbed his hand. "Please... stay with me for a while?" she pleaded, her eyes filled with longing.

  Vincent hesitated, then sat back down. "We need to talk," he said seriously.

  Before he could continue, Christine suddenly sat up, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately. Vincent, caught off guard, steadied himself against the headboard. He was stunned—this young girl was far more forward than he had expected.