In the SMX Convention Center, MOA Complex.
It has been like a week since the survivors were gathered in the convention for the reason they don’t know why. For days, the only sounds that they can hear was the sound of a huge gun firing and an explosion hear and there.
Some feared the worst, convinced that the apocalypse had finally caught up to them. Others held onto hope, believing that the military forces outside were still fighting to keep them safe. But with each passing day, sleep became harder to come by.
Among the survivors was a priest, a frail man in his sixties, who had taken it upon himself to lead daily prayers. Every morning and evening, a small group would gather around him, seeking comfort in his words.
Some clung to his words like a lifeline. Others, hardened by loss and suffering, remained skeptical. But whether they believed or not, everyone shared the same question—What happens next?
Then, finally, after seven days of waiting, something changed.
The doors to the convention center opened.
A group of armed soldiers entered, their black uniforms and tactical gear unmistakable. These weren’t just regular military—they were part of Thomas Estaris’s private army, disciplined and well-equipped. Their presence immediately silenced the murmurs among the survivors.
One of the soldiers stepped forward and spoke.
"The Supreme Commander will be speaking with you all shortly. Please remain where you are and avoid any unnecessary movement," the soldier announced.
A heavy silence followed. The survivors exchanged glances, uncertainty clear in their eyes. For the past week, they had been kept in the dark, listening to distant battles with no knowledge of their fate. And now, finally, they were about to get answers.
More soldiers filed into the convention center, positioning themselves strategically along the walls and at the exits.
Then, the murmuring began.
"Supreme Commander?"
"Who the hell is that?"
"Is he with the government?"
Questions rippled through the crowd, but no answers came.
Minutes passed before the heavy doors at the far end of the hall swung open once more.
And then he entered.
Thomas Estaris.
Dressed in his signature black tactical uniform, his presence alone commanded attention. He walked with measured steps, his sharp gaze scanning the room with an intensity that silenced any lingering whispers. Flanking him were Marcus, Adrian, and several high-ranking officers—each one exuding authority.
Stopping at the center of the hall, Thomas let his gaze sweep over the assembled crowd. His eyes met those of men and women who had once been office workers, students, and shopkeepers. Now, they were nothing more than lost souls seeking purpose.
Then, he spoke.
"You’ve been waiting for answers."
The hall remained dead silent.
"You’ve heard the battles outside, the gunfire, the explosions. You’ve wondered whether the world was finally caving in around you."
A few heads nodded unconsciously.
"But fear not, my men had fought valiantly to protect this fortress and all the zombies that threatened to invade us were either vaporized or burned. I am happy to announce to you all that you will return to your respective units and continue your normal life. Though the start of the apocalypse had redefined our definition of normal, what I am saying is that the battle is over and you will now no longer be held inside of this convention."
Hearing that, the tension that had gripped the survivors for days finally began to lift. A wave of relieved murmurs spread throughout the crowd before erupting into scattered cheers. The words they had been desperately waiting for—the battle is over—had finally been spoken.
Some hugged each other, others sighed in deep relief, while a few simply stood there, stunned, as if struggling to process what they had just heard. The thought of stepping outside, of breathing fresh air and seeing the sky again, felt almost surreal.
Thomas raised a hand, and the hall quickly fell silent again.
"But before we proceed, listen carefully. You will exit in an orderly manner. No pushing, no running. Follow the instructions given to you by my men. This is not a free-for-all. If you act out of line, you will be detained."
His words immediately set the tone. There would be no chaos, no disorder.
He gestured to Marcus, who stepped forward and unfolded a large clipboard. "The survivors will be sorted into groups," Marcus announced. "Each of you will be assigned to an area where you will receive further instructions. We will call your names in batches. When you hear your name, step forward and follow the designated escort. Do not deviate from your assigned route."
A few nervous glances were exchanged among the survivors, but most nodded in understanding.
Thomas continued. "To maintain security, everyone will undergo medical screening before they are released into the complex. Any injuries or suspicious conditions will be checked and treated accordingly. If you are sick, do not try to hide it. My medics are trained to help."
A soldier stepped forward, adding, "Food and water stations have been set up outside. You will each receive a ration pack and a temporary housing assignment until further notice. More details will be provided once everyone is accounted for."
At the mention of food, a new energy rippled through the crowd. The past week had been filled with uncertainty and hunger. The promise of stability, even in a world as broken as this, was more than enough to keep them in line.
Moments later—one of the survivors raised their hand.
"Yes?" Thomas asked, pointing at the survivor who seemed to be in his mid-forties, prompting him to speak.
"This is about the unit assignment. Why are you changing it?"
Thomas had expected the question and so he knew the answer to it.
"During the operation, some buildings which some survivors are living in were damaged. Our engineering department are currently assessing it as we speak and will be repaired once they have the relevant information aiding them to the reconstruction."
The survivor understood the explanation and nodded slowly. "I see... so it’s temporary, then?"
Thomas shook his head. "Not all units are permanent as we could be expecting survivors arriving in the MOA complex in the future. We have to be practical with the living space so I hope you understand. Now, do any of you have any further questions?"
No one raised their hands.
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