Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The morgue wasn't really a morgue—not in the pre-outbreak sense. It was a repurposed refrigeration unit near the south wing of the refinery complex. Thick insulated walls. Locking steel doors. Cold enough to slow decay but not enough to keep the stench away.

The five body bags lay in a row on the tiled floor, each tagged, zipped tight, and labeled with the unit patches they had worn. Three from Echo Company. One from Recon. One driver. All dead less than three hours.

Shadow 6 and Shadow 8 were the last to drag the final bag inside, their boots leaving damp prints on the polished floor.

"Fuckin' heavy," Shadow 6 grunted, letting the bag slide to the ground with a thump. "This guy was built like a rhino."

Shadow 8 rolled his shoulders. "They always get heavier when they're cold. Dead weight's a bitch."

On the far side of the room, two refinery soldiers were waiting—both junior personnel, barely out of training, clad in standard Overwatch utility gear. Garza and Reyes.

Reyes had a clipboard in hand. "Name tags?" he asked, not bothering to hide the wrinkled nose.

Shadow 6 reached into the front pouch of his vest, pulling out a blood-smeared ID card. "Last one. Private Amador. Shot through the sternum. No movement when we checked. Bagged him thirty out."

Garza muttered under his breath as he stared at the zipped black outlines. "Why are we the ones stuck in here with these damn things?"

Shadow 8 shrugged. "You want us to babysit the stiffs too?"

"I just don't get why they couldn't burn 'em," Garza went on, wrinkling his nose. "Even sealed up, the smell's crawling through my sinuses."

Reyes gave him a tired look. "Chain of custody, genius. We hand them off to their command. Proper ceremony. Maybe even burial if they're lucky."

"Yeah, well," Garza grumbled, "we keep them here any longer, we'll be burying the whole building in stink."

The Shadows had already turned to leave.

"Room's yours now," Shadow 6 said. "We're done here."

As they exited, the heavy door thudded shut behind them. Garza and Reyes stared at the bags for a second longer. The refrigeration unit hissed faintly, the only sound in the room.

"Let's get out of here," Reyes said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Inventory's done."

Garza didn't argue. Both men stepped out, letting the metal door close behind them. No lock. Just a standard magnetic seal. Not that anyone expected a security risk.

No one stayed behind to watch the dead.

Thirty minutes later, the light in the cold room flickered once.

Then twice.

One of the body bags twitched.

Just slightly. A tremor. Almost imperceptible.

Another minute passed. Then the second one shifted—its outline bulging as something inside moved. Slowly. Cautiously.

Inside the second bag, the body's fingers curled tight.

The nails were black.

Rotten.

But sharp.

They pierced through the bag's lining with little resistance—ripping a hole just wide enough for a hand to slither through. The body inside didn't moan. It didn't breathe.

But it moved.

Soon, four more bags began to stir.

The claws of death—unseen, unexpected—sliced and scraped against the synthetic fabric until five infected corpses lay free, twitching and jerking, flesh sloughing in strips from their faces.

The door—sealed only magnetically—stood in the way. The figures rose, limbs crooked, posture wrong. Inhuman. Silent, at first. Then came the sound.

A dull thud.

Then another.

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

Heavy fists and clawed hands slammed against the door.

No alarm triggered. No motion detector screamed.

It wasn't built for that.

Outside, just down the hall, Nurse Kayla had just clocked back in. The overnight staff was rotating early due to incoming wounded, and she was triple-checking inventory in the adjacent med supply cabinet when she heard it.

The banging.

Rhythmic.

Muted.

Her brow furrowed. She looked up from her clipboard and listened. A couple more knocks echoed faintly down the hall.

Tap. Tap. Bang.

She stepped out of the supply closet, peering down the corridor.

Nothing.

Most of the lights were still dimmed—standard low-power mode. It made the edges of everything seem darker than they were.

Tap. Tap. Bang.

"Hello?" she called out.

No answer.

Cautiously, Kayla walked down the hall. Her ID badge tapped lightly against her chest with each step.

As she reached the door to the refrigeration unit, the banging stopped.

She froze.

Frowned.

Then took a step closer.

The magnetic panel blinked green.

Unlocked.

"Probably Garza screwing around," she muttered under her breath, hand moving to the access bar.

She pressed it.

The door hissed open—

And something lunged.

The first infected was on her in an instant, jaws wide, black teeth snapping straight into her throat. Her scream cut through the air, shrill and sharp—echoing down the corridor.

Then it gurgled.

Then it stopped.

The nurse hit the ground hard, her legs kicking, arms flailing—

Then nothing.

The blood pooled fast.

The others followed.

One infected hunched over her, tearing at her ribcage with jagged nails.

Another sniffed the air, head jerking at the slightest motion, the remnants of its military uniform still hanging off its twisted frame.

And then Kayla's body jerked.

Once.

Twice.

Her fingers curled.

The transformation had begun.

Down the hall, no one heard anything.

In the med bay, Delgado slept.

Tinio whispered in his sleep.

And no one noticed the nurse's station going quiet.

Delgado stirred on the med bay cot, his brow furrowed, body twitching slightly as the tail end of a nightmare clung to his mind. He blinked, adjusting to the dim lights overhead. Something felt… off.

He pushed himself upright with a quiet groan, his injured leg stiff. Tinio mumbled something in his sleep across from him, tossing a little under the blanket.

Delgado rubbed his eyes and sat still for a moment, letting the silence settle.

Then he heard it.

Shuffling.

Not loud. Just the faint scrape of skin—or maybe boots—against tile.

He frowned.

Then came the sound of a door creaking open.

His head snapped toward the med bay hallway.

That wasn't normal.

He stood slowly, testing his balance, and hobbled toward the threshold of the room. The hallway beyond was quiet, too quiet. The usual hum of low conversation, distant clatter of trays, the squeak of rolling carts—none of it.

Then he saw movement.

Shadows bending around the corner.

A figure staggered into view. Blood soaked its chest, head tilted unnaturally, eyes locked forward in a dead stare.

Then two more behind it.

Delgado's breath caught.

"Oh shit—"

The first one turned toward him.

Then they ran.