Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

Airspace above Bataan

2104 hours.

Reaper One-One loitered at 22,000 feet.

Unseen, unheard.

Its dark silhouette blended with the sky, gliding silently above the chaos unfolding below. In the onboard systems suite, the MQ-9B drone's AI-driven targeting algorithm was running calculations in real time—processing thermal scans, adjusting for wind drift, humidity, movement patterns.

In Overwatch's command center back at the MOA Complex, the operator designated as Reaper One-One sat behind a curved bank of monitors, fingers moving across the HOTAS joystick and touchscreen interface.

"Eagle Actual, this is. Reaper One-One has confirmed thermal lock on twenty-five targets clustered near the northern perimeter," the operator reported. "Classification—infected. Confirming zero friendly IFF signatures in the immediate zone."

Thomas Estaris stood just behind him, arms crossed. His eyes never left the primary feed. "Weapons free. Begin thinning the swarm."

"Roger that. Engaging with AGM-114R2 Hellfires. Laser-guided. Area saturation pattern—3-5-3 grid."

The first drone strike came fast and precise.

The Hellfire missile detached from the Reaper's right wing pylon, its guidance fins unfolding midair. It dropped silently for a moment—then ignited with a sharp hiss.

BOOM.

A clean, direct hit—midpack. A dozen infected were vaporized instantly. Limbs thrown in every direction. The heat signature vanished in the infrared display.

Down on the ground, the Crimson Dawn did not react immediately.

They were in the middle of another cleansing—dragging a half-alive soldier to the chapel ruins where an Ascension ritual was about to begin. The Penitents were chanting. The Red Choir was humming.

Then came the second strike.

BOOM.

A second cluster of Chosen was obliterated near the burned-out medical wing. The concussion wave collapsed what remained of the structure's northern wall. Scourged members were flung across the corridor like ragdolls, their bodies crumpling in unnatural positions.

Inside the cathedral-turned-hall, Waker Ramon stumbled as the shockwave rumbled through the concrete.

"What in the flame was that?!"

A younger choir member ran in, her voice panicked.

"Fire from the sky! The Chosen—two packs gone! Gone in an instant!"

Ramon ran outside into the firelit haze of the northern sector, his robe whipping in the wind.

Above them, the Reaper circled—high, invisible.

He could see nothing in the night sky.

But the sky was watching.

"Confirmed kills. First wave—thirty-two infected neutralized. Minimal collateral."

Phillip returned to the console, suiting up beside Thomas. His vest was clipped. Rifle mag-locked to his plate carrier. He tapped the screen, examining the strike spread.

"The zombies are scattering, possibly confused by the sudden explosion made by the missile."

"They weren't expecting a bird in the sky," Thomas said. "They've gotten used to fighting human targets. Now they're being dissected."

"Still, the way the zombies move seems to me that someone is guiding them." Phillip said.

Thomas nodded once. "That is why we need to find out if this is a sabotage and an inside job."

Back on the screen, Reaper One-one guided the drone toward the east corridor.

"Next strike package: GBU-39/B SDB—small diameter bomb. Precision blast radius. Marking group around the vehicle depot."

"Do it," Thomas ordered.

Ramon watched as another explosion rocked the depot.

The fire lit the sky for a second—long enough to silhouette the figures emerging from the east motor pool. The Chosen—ones he'd known by face and name—were shredded, burned, crushed.

"Where is it coming from?!" one of the Penitents screamed.

"They have machines!" another shouted. "A god from the sky!"

"No," Ramon growled. "Not a god. This is them."

"The outsiders. The ones the survivors whispered about. The black-clad ones."

He remembered the rumors—snippets from those they had interrogated. The camp had survived for months only because of an external ally. A separate force. One that had arrived in helicopters. One with command of the air.

Reaper One-One — Strike Log

Target Group Alpha – 15 infected neutralized. Confirmed dismemberment.

Target Group Bravo – 18 infected. GBU impact at 3m offset. No collateral.

Target Group Charlie – 9 moving figures, human silhouette pattern, but nonstandard movement speed. Engaged with caution. Result: 7 destroyed, 2 unconfirmed.

"Sir, something's odd," Reaper One-one reported. "We've tagged several heat signatures with… elevated internal temperatures. Above standard infected. Too high for normal metabolism."

Phillip turned. "You think they're modified?"

Thomas didn't answer.

He watched as the next explosion tore through the vehicle corridor—and the remaining figures in that area didn't scatter.

They moved through fire.

They didn't scream.

They simply walked forward, skin burning, arms twitching, bone protruding from raw flesh.

Reaper One-one voice cracked.

"They're still standing…"

***

Panic had broken out.

The Red Choir present in General De Vera's base was no longer chanting—they were fleeing.

Waker Ramon knelt beside a dying Scourged member, trying to press the torn neck closed with shaking hands.

"I don't understand. They were chosen… they were blessed…"

A deep, guttural voice spoke from behind him.

"No blessing withstands fire from the gods."

Matias, now revealed as one of the last Penitent operatives still alive, approached slowly.

"They warned us… the survivors. The ones we used. They told stories."

"What stories?" Ramon hissed.

"That the complex in Manila had machines in the sky. Machines that watched. That struck. They called it… Overwatch."

Ramon stared upward, eyes wild.

"We were told they were weak… living behind glass and concrete. No believers. Just cowards in armor."

Matias shook his head.

"No. They don't hide. They hunt."

And far above them, Reaper One-One banked for another pass.

Command Center – MOA Complex. Fifteen minutes after the Reaper Drone fired its missile.

"Final pass before fuel return. Targeting last cluster behind command garage. Two Hellfires remaining. Confirm release?"

Thomas stared at the screen.

"No. Hold those last two."

"Sir?"

"Shadow Team is inbound and twenty minutes out. I want Reaper to loiter for overwatch."

"Copy."

Thomas turned his gaze to the screen where it flicked to black and white—showing the face of Phillip and his men inside the helicopter and adjacent to their display is the map where it showed the blips of them heading towards Bataan.

"You're up."

Phillip nodded, pulling his helmet on.

"We'll bring them home, sir."

"Remember the mission, we need to find out who did this."

"Let's hope that they were not caught by the explosion made by the Reaper," Phillip chuckled.