Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The buzz of activity at Substation Echo hadn't slowed since the Black Hawks arrived. If anything, it had only intensified. Word spread fast—three military helicopters had flown in out of nowhere, gunned down a horde of infected, and dropped off strangers who weren't part of the military chain of command.

Civilians—farmers, tradesmen, volunteers—gathered cautiously near the southern fence, eyes fixed on the Black Hawks parked in the open clearing.

"They're not ours," a camp guard told one man, adjusting the sling on his rifle.

"What do you mean they're not ours?" the man asked, squinting at the matte-black helicopters. "They've got miniguns and military gear. That's Army hardware."

"Looks like it," the soldier replied. "But they belong to our new partners."

A few of the civilians exchanged glances.

"Partners?" another civilian asked. "You mean the people Villamor went to see?"

"Yeah," the guard nodded. "Overwatch."

An older woman crossed her arms. "They didn't say anything on the loudspeakers. Just showed up with a goddamn airstrike."

"And saved the camp," a young man added.

"Still scared the hell out of everyone," someone muttered from the back.

Their attention turned to one of the helicopters. Its side doors were still open, and inside they could see crates—equipment, sealed black cases, and rows of seats stripped for cargo.

Children peeked through the wire fence, eyes wide, pointing at the gun mounts and the barrels that had turned a zombie horde into mulch.

Back near the command tent, a more serious conversation was already underway.

Phillip stood in front of the map table with General de Vera, Villamor, Lieutenant Rosales, and two other senior officers.

"Before we get into joint patrol schedules," Phillip said, "we need to talk about your defenses."

Rosales raised an eyebrow. "We've held out this long."

"Against biters," Phillip said, matter-of-fact. "Standard infected. Maybe one or two with minor mutations. But that's not what I'm here to talk about."

De Vera crossed his arms. "Alright, then. What are you here to talk about?"

Phillip turned to the board behind him and tapped the top corner of a laminated printout. Three names, each underlined in red.

"Mawbeast. Reaper. Goliath."

The officers glanced at each other, then back at him.

"You've got to be joking," Rosales said.

"I wish I was," Phillip replied. "Mawbeast is a quadrupedal variant. Around six hundred pounds. Muscle structure like a pitbull crossed with a goddamn tank. Thick hide, can tear through sandbags and light vehicle armor. We lost a recon team trying to study one."

General de Vera didn't interrupt. He was listening now—closely.

Phillip moved to the second name. "Reaper. Think of a bat the size of a jeep. High-altitude flyer, dives at two hundred kilometers per hour. It grabs people off rooftops or pulls lookouts off towers. It nests in high ground and can't be tracked by thermal unless it's moving."

The officers' expressions darkened.

"Last one," Phillip said, tapping the final name.

"Goliath."

He didn't elaborate right away. Instead, he pulled a tablet from his side pouch and handed it to de Vera. A video clip was queued—grainy footage from a drone camera.

The general hit play.

It was a shaky aerial feed. It shows a footage of a hellish landscape of EDSA where the Goliath is charging with its shield forward and obliterate everything in its path.

The video zoomed in—barely able to frame the creature.

It was humanoid in shape. Towering. Ten stories tall. Skin like cracked armor, muscles bulging under grayish-black flesh. Its head turned slowly toward the camera.

And then the feed cut.

"Holy God," one officer muttered.

Phillip spoke again. "That was when we were protecting our camp from a horde of zombies and other variants."

Rosales blinked. "And you think these things could head south?"

"They already are," Phillip said. "Zombies don't just migrate—they're drawn to signals. Noise. Population density. Resource hubs. Your camp? You've been lighting up the airwaves, running generators, establishing order. That's a beacon. They're coming."

De Vera sat down slowly, his fingers laced under his chin.

"And you're telling us we're not equipped to fight them."

"I'm telling you no one is," Phillip replied. "But Overwatch is adapting faster than anyone else."

He reached into another pouch and tossed down a printed loadout list.

"We're sending you the following: two Reaper drones for high-altitude surveillance. One turret-mounted 30mm autocannon with tracking firmware. Fifty M4A1 rifles, 5,000 rounds. Forty sets of upgraded body armor. One mobile radar kit. And two portable cremation units. Just in case."

No one said anything for a long moment.

"You're giving us this?" Rosales asked.

Phillip corrected him. "We're stationing it here. It stays under Overwatch authority, but it's for your use. You'll be trained to operate everything by our team. We'll rotate instructors every three days. Except for the drone, we will be the one operating it."

General de Vera looked up. "And if one of those things shows up? One of the Goliaths?"

Phillip didn't blink. "If that happens, you call it in. We evacuate civilians. Then we drop everything we have."

"And if you can't stop it?"

Phillip looked him dead in the eye.

"Then no one can."

The tent went quiet.

Outside, the civilians were still clustered near the helicopters. More were arriving from the housing rows—men and women in patched clothes, children peeking out from behind their legs.

The soldiers on the walls watched them. The tension hadn't disappeared, but it had changed. Wariness was giving way to curiosity. And maybe, beneath it all, hope.

Phillip took a deep breath, then pointed to the bottom of the gear manifest.

"There's a reason we're here, General. You signed up. That means we fight together now. No one gets left behind."

De Vera finally nodded.

"Then start your drills tomorrow. Full roster."

Phillip extended a hand again.

"Welcome to the war."

De Vera took the handshake firmly, eyes steady. Around him, his officers remained silent, absorbing the weight of what they'd just seen and heard.

"Get your instructors ready," the general said. "We've got a lot of catching up to do."