Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

2139 hours

Inside the Compound – Bataan

Phillip moved like a blade through smoke.

His rifle swept left, then right—each pull of the trigger dropping another infected. Suppressed shots cracked through the night, followed by the dull thumps of bodies hitting tile, pavement, and earth. The Shadow Team had spread into a textbook triangle formation, securing corridors and clearing room by room with ruthless efficiency.

"Shadow 2, status?" Phillip asked through comms.

"North corridor clear. One survivor found hiding under a collapsed wall—administrative staff. Escorting her to LZ now."

"Shadow 3?"

"West sector. Found two lieutenants in the garage office. One's wounded, the other's mobile. Dispatching infected nearby, but we've got hostiles trying to flank around the wreckage."

"Do not let them overrun the garage. It's the only exit route we have left if the main gate collapses."

"Copy."

Phillip raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. A ghoul that had once been a quartermaster dropped with a hole straight through its eye socket. He didn't even pause to watch it fall. Another turned the corner. It didn't make it two steps before its kneecaps were taken out and a round followed through the chin.

They weren't here to play hero.

They were here to cut the rot out of the wound and get whoever still had stripes on their shoulder out alive.

Shadow 4 moved up beside him, breathing steady despite the chaos. "We've got movement inside the west comms room. Door's sealed. Could be more command staff."

"Stack up. Flash it."

Shadow 4 readied the flashbang, pulled the pin.

"Breaching."

He kicked the door in.

POP.

The scream that followed wasn't infected. It was human—raw and desperate.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

Phillip rushed in, rifle still raised, scanning the corners. Four uniformed personnel crouched behind overturned desks. One of them—Major Ignacio—wore a bloodied rank patch.

Phillip stepped forward. "Stand up!"

The man nodded frantically, hand still raised. "Yes! Yes! I'm standing up! I'm not a zombie, I am a major. Major Ignacio!"

Shadow 4 moved to help one of the wounded officers. "Don't be scared, we're Overwatch. You're being extracted."

Ignacio looked stunned. "Overwatch? From Manila?"

"Yeah," Phillip said flatly. "You can thank De Vera for making the call. Now let's move. But first, we need to confirm if you are not bitten."

"I am not bitten."

"I can't confirm that," Phillip narrowed his eyes behind the visor, stepping closer. The light from his underbarrel flashlight glinted off Ignacio's sweat-slicked face.

"Shirt off. Sleeves up. Same for the others."

The officers hesitated for a second—then, without protest, they complied. Phillip and Shadow 4 inspected each one quickly, rifles still in hand. Arms, legs, torsos—no visible bite marks. A few bruises, cuts, one burn on a female officer's forearm—but nothing that suggested infection.

Phillip gave a curt nod. "You're clear. Let's move."

Ignacio let out a shaky breath as he pulled his bloodstained shirt back over his head. "Most of us never thought we'd actually see Overwatch."

"Let's make sure you live long enough to tell someone about it," Phillip muttered, already moving toward the hallway.

He tapped his comms. "Shadow One to team. Four more survivors—command staff. Uninfected. Escorted toward fallback LZ."

"Copy, Shadow One," came Shadow 2's voice. "North corridor swept. No further contacts. Two civilians extracted."

"Shadow 3. Garage sector secured. Contained a breach in the loading dock. Still mopping up stragglers."

Phillip and Shadow 4 took point, rifles up, guiding the officers through a wrecked hallway that used to be the base's central operations corridor. Dried blood smeared the walls. A severed arm hung from a shattered light fixture. Papers and ration packs littered the floor. The fluorescent lights above flickered weakly.

Halfway through, the officers paused when they heard distant gunfire.

"Keep moving," Phillip ordered. "Ignore the noise."

But one of the younger officers turned back. "What about the others still trapped in Sector 6?"

Phillip stopped.

He glanced at Shadow 4. "We haven't cleared that zone yet."

"I have people in there," the officer insisted. "Medical. Comms. They're not soldiers, they won't make it on their own."

Phillip considered it.

"We'll sweep Sector 6 after this extraction. You're not helping them by dying in this hallway."

The officer clenched his jaw but said nothing more.

They emerged into the open, fractured remains of the courtyard. The extraction corridor had been marked by smoke grenades earlier, and the faint shimmer of infrared strobes bounced off the Reaper drone's HUD relay above. Another Blackhawk circled low in the distance, waiting for a green light.

"Blackhawk 03, this is Shadow One. Package secure. Marking LZ for secondary lift. You are cleared inbound. Be advised—occasional contacts moving through the eastern quadrant."

"Affirmative, Shadow One. We're on approach. Weapons hot."

Behind them, one of the rescued officers let out a cry as an infected sprinted from the debris pile—arms flailing, mouth torn wide open.

Phillip dropped it with a clean double tap. The body crumpled two feet from the group.

"They're getting more active," Shadow 4 muttered.

"They are always active," Phillip replied coldly.

***

Elsewhere in the camp.

Waker Ramon crouched in the ruins of what used to be the officers' barracks. His face was streaked with soot, his robes hidden beneath a salvaged jacket. Around him, six of the Crimson Dawn infiltrators remained—survivors of the chaos, of the drone strikes, of the burning rage that had fallen from the sky.

"Their leader," whispered Matias, who crouched next to him, "the one with the rifle—he moves like the wind. Shoots without hesitation."

"I saw him too," Ramon said. "He leads like a knife cuts. Precise. Cold."

They had watched from the shadows as Phillip's Shadow Team cut down every Chosen in sight. Even the Scourged—once considered impossible to stop by any means short of a flamethrower—were executed without emotion.

It had been an embarrassment.

A divine insult.

The Flame had not protected them.

And that... terrified Ramon.

He turned toward the youngest of the infiltrators. "Where is the Red Choir?"

"Scattered. Some are hiding in the rec building. Others fled during the last explosion from the sky."

"Get them. All of them. No more chanting. No more symbols. Strip their collars. Burn the red robes. I want them disguised as panicked civilians."

"But Waker—"

"No!" Ramon snarled. "You saw what I saw. This enemy does not hesitate. They hunt. We cannot fight them now."

Matias frowned. "So we run?"

"No, we are going to infiltrate their base."