Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The morning sun crept over the horizon, casting a warm golden hue across the Bataan military base. It was like any other day for the people living in the military base of the Philippine Armed Forces.

For Captain Enrique Villamor however, sleep had been little more than an afterthought. He stood just outside the command building, arms crossed, watching soldiers run maintenance drills with whatever little fuel they still had.

Inside the office, General Angelo de Vera sat behind his desk, silent for a long moment after reviewing a stack of handwritten reports. He tapped the back of a pen against the paper before finally speaking.

"Villamor."

"Sir," Villamor replied, stepping forward.

"We're moving forward with talks."

Villamor raised an eyebrow slightly. He had expected this eventually, but not this soon.

"With Overwatch?" he asked.

De Vera nodded. "Yes. We can't afford to delay. Supplies are dwindling. Civilians are growing restless. We have at most three days' worth of fuel left if we keep running patrols and logistics support. If we keep pushing forward blindly, we'll run dry before the end of the week."

Villamor remained silent, waiting for the order that would inevitably follow.

"I want you to head back to the refinery," De Vera said firmly. "You already have rapport with their commander. Take a delegation—small. No more than three people. You'll speak to Thomas Estaris directly."

"And what exactly are we offering, sir?"

"Alliance," De Vera replied. "Nothing fancy. Mutual respect, joint efforts on resource protection, and shared intelligence. We propose a fuel-sharing arrangement. Limited, but consistent. If they accept, we begin transferring rations or manpower in exchange."

Villamor nodded slowly. "And if they don't?"

De Vera's eyes narrowed. "Then we start preparing contingency plans. We still have enough working vehicles to mount a strike if absolutely necessary—but I'd rather avoid bleeding more men."

There was an unspoken truth between them: a second firefight would tear open wounds that diplomacy might never mend. They both knew how fragile everything had become.

Villamor exhaled. "Understood, sir. I'll leave within the hour."

De Vera offered a curt nod. "Take Corporal Tinio and Sergeant Delgado. You brief them on the way. Make sure they understand this isn't a threat—this is an opening."

"Yes, sir."

"And Villamor?"

He paused at the door.

"Don't screw this up."

Villamor gave a faint smile. "No pressure."

—

Two hours later, the convoy of three light transport vehicles emerged from the base's outer perimeter, kicking up dust as they rolled down the cracked asphalt road toward the south. Mounted flags fluttered from their antennas—not white, but bright orange. A signal of non-hostile intent, agreed upon during Villamor's last meeting with Thomas.

The vehicles moved steadily through the terrain, bypassing ruined checkpoints and long-abandoned farmlands. Inside the lead truck, Villamor sat quietly, briefing Tinio and Delgado on the mission's priorities, repeating the General's orders like a mantra.

"Talk first. If they're not receptive, we return and plan. We're not forcing anything."

—

High above the earth, the MQ-9 Reaper drone banked slowly in a wide arc, its high-resolution cameras locking onto the slow-moving convoy.

Inside the UAV Operations Center at the refinery, Javier Cruz adjusted the joystick with practiced precision. The feed zoomed in on the familiar form of Captain Villamor riding shotgun in the lead vehicle.

"Overwatch HQ, this is Reaper One-One. Eyes on Lima-Bravo outbound convoy, heading south along Route 29. Visual confirms Philippine Army vehicles. No mounted weapons. No visible aggression. Marking with Friend-Low-Risk tag."

Cruz tapped a few keys and forwarded the live footage directly to the command terminal.

In the refinery's central building, Logan stirred from his half-nap in the security room. A chime from the alert system pinged in his earpiece. He glanced at the screen, and his eyes widened slightly.

"Reaper found something…" he muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

He walked briskly down the corridor and opened Thomas Estaris's office door without knocking.

Thomas was sound asleep on the cot in the corner, his boots still on, rifle leaned against the side.

"Boss," Logan said, louder this time. "Wake up."

Thomas stirred but didn't open his eyes.

Logan took a step closer. "Thomas. We've got movement."

That did it.

Thomas sat up, groggy but instantly alert. "What kind of movement?"

"Convoy. Three trucks, Philippine Army. Reaper confirms it's Villamor. Looks like he's coming back."

Thomas rubbed his face once and grabbed his jacket from the armrest.

"He bringing a battalion this time?"

"Nope. Small delegation. No turrets. No support units. Looks diplomatic."

Thomas stood, slinging on his jacket. "You're sure?"

Logan nodded. "Cruz tagged the convoy as Friend-Low-Risk. No signs of prep for engagement."

Thomas crossed the room and stared at the monitor. He watched as the trucks moved steadily down the road, civilian flags flapping from their antennas.

"Get the front gate on alert, but don't raise weapons. Let them approach. Standard perimeter watch. I'll meet them at the gate."

"Copy that."

Logan tapped his radio and began relaying orders as Thomas tightened his gloves and stepped out of the office.

The refinery yard was already stirring. Guards fell into assigned positions along the sandbag walls. Drones buzzed as they rotated and focused lenses on the approaching vehicles.

Thomas walked down the central path, boots crunching on gravel, eyes focused toward the ridgeline.

Villamor was coming back.

And this time, he wasn't bringing rifles. He was bringing answers.

Whether those answers would lead to cooperation—or confrontation—remained to be seen.

But Thomas would hear him out.

For the sake of what was left of the world.

As Villamor's convoy neared a bend along the forested ridgeline, Reaper One-One kept its silent vigil high above. The drone's sensors swept the terrain methodically.

Inside the UAV Operations Center, Cruz leaned forward, sipping lukewarm instant coffee as he monitored the feed. He toggled a camera angle to scan the western tree line—a routine sweep, until something odd caught his eye.

He frowned.

"Overwatch HQ, this is Reaper One-One," he said, sitting up straighter. "Be advised—detecting movement west of Route 29, grid Lima-Three-Four."

The camera zoomed in sharply, shifting to thermal view.

Dense clusters of heat signatures—uncoordinated, shambling, fast moving zombies.

Cruz's voice tightened. "We've got a horde. Rough estimate: two hundred to three hundred. Migrating south. If they stay on this heading, they'll intersect Route 29 in approximately twenty-five minutes. They'll cross right into Villamor's path."