Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The red mist hadn't moved for a while.

Erika sat with her back to the cold tile wall of the ruined café, knees pulled up to her chest, rifle propped against the counter beside her. The place reeked of spoiled milk and burnt plastic, but she had stopped noticing. Her mind was focused on the radio.

And the silence it carried.

She adjusted the dial one more time, switching frequencies, fingers shaking from more than just fatigue.

"Echo-7 to MOA Control. Anyone reading this? Please respond."

Nothing.

Only static.

And then—crackling.

A faint voice pushed through the noise.

"Echo-7… this is MOA… acknowledge…"

She gripped the receiver tighter. "Control! I read you! I'm alive! Repeat, I'm still alive!"

The voice came clearer now, Marcus's tone steady but clinical. "Erika… we have you on drone visuals. Maintain current position. No exfil at this time. Standby for further instruction."

She blinked.

Her stomach turned.

"What?" she said, though she already knew what it meant.

"We've suspended all recon operations. You are to stay hidden and avoid engagement until threat level decreases."

"You're… leaving me here?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

A long pause.

Then Marcus's voice again: "Orders from the Supreme Commander. We'll keep you on drone watch. Stay alive, Erika. That's all you have to do."

The line went dead.

She didn't move for a while.

The rifle in her lap felt heavier than before. Her chest tightened. Her mind raced—not with panic, not yet—but with something colder.

She wasn't important enough.

Even after what happened… after that night in his room, when she had dropped her guard, her armor, and everything else. She thought she mattered.

To him.

But Thomas Estaris had made his decision.

And it wasn't her.

"…bastard," she whispered.

She stood, not bothering to hide the bitterness on her face. Her legs ached from the crouched position, and her shoulders felt bruised from the earlier run. But she wasn't going to die in a fucking coffee stall.

She wasn't going to be forgotten.

Not like this.

She peeked out from behind the counter and slowly moved toward the shattered display window. The red mist was still there, but thinner now. It drifted toward the other side of the mall, drawn by some unknown pulse deeper in the structure.

She adjusted the visor of her helmet and tapped her wrist scanner.

Minimal movement nearby.

She couldn't trust it completely—those Bloomspawn things were erratic, faster than anything she'd encountered before. But it was either move now or wait for them to come back.

And she wasn't waiting.

She checked her magazine—twenty-one rounds left. One grenade. A single flare.

Not enough to fight. Just enough to scare or escape.

She pushed through the cracked door frame and stepped back into the corridor.

Every sound made her flinch—the creak of broken tiles, the flutter of paper, the occasional drip from a cracked ceiling pipe. But nothing lunged at her. Not yet.

She moved fast and quiet, hugging the walls, staying in the shadows. Her objective wasn't clear. There was no evac. No rally point.

So her mission was simple now: survive.

Survive until Thomas changed his mind. Survive until the Bloom pulled back. Survive until someone decided she was worth rescuing again.

She reached a dead-end stairwell with a collapsed ceiling and backtracked, cutting through what used to be a small bookstore. Half the shelves were burned. The other half were bloated with mold. She grabbed a half-empty bottle of water from behind the counter and stuffed it into her pouch.

Then she heard it.

A wet dragging noise. Not far. Coming from the hallway she just left.

Her heart pounded.

She ducked behind the cashier's table and crouched low, rifle aimed toward the broken glass entry.

A shadow passed.

Too fast.

She held her breath.

The thing didn't enter—but it lingered. A claw scraped across the floor. A bone-white hand gripped the corner of the frame.

Then it sniffed.

And then…

…it moved on.

Only when the sound of its limbs scraping tile finally faded did Erika breathe again.

She didn't wait. She moved.

Up an escalator now covered in vines. She sidestepped the growth, careful not to touch any of it. She had seen what happened when it reacted—how it flinched like skin when wounded. It was alive. And it listened.

She reached the upper floor. A cracked skylight offered a view of the crimson-streaked skyline.

Ortigas was unrecognizable.

The buildings were still there—technically. But vines ran between them like arteries. One tower had burst open from the middle, a massive pod splitting its structure like a growing seed. Something pulsed inside it, visible even from this distance.

She spotted movement.

Far below—hundreds of meters down—a patrol of Bloomspawn creatures moved across the road. They moved in formation. Not like zombies.

Like soldiers.

She crouched near the edge of the shattered glass and pulled her radio again.

"Echo-7… Erika… reporting continued movement of new infected. They're… organized. I repeat, they're patrolling. This isn't random."

Static.

Then a voice.

Thomas.

"…Erika. I'm here."

Her breath caught.

She didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," his voice said. "We had to make a choice. It wasn't personal."

She still didn't speak.

"Why are you moving? We told you to stay put."

"…Why are you moving? We told you to stay put."

Erika didn't answer.

She clicked the radio off without a word.

Her lips were pressed in a hard, thin line as she crouched behind the cracked skylight. Her breath fogged the inside of her visor for a second before clearing again. That voice—Thomas's voice—meant nothing to her now. Not after what he said. Not after what he didn't do.

She had given him a piece of herself. Trusted him with it.

And he'd left her here.

Told her to "stay put" like some disposable pawn on a game board he could afford to lose.

Screw that.

She pushed away from the window and slipped back into the shadows of the hallway, ignoring the faint crackle of the radio still clipped to her chest.

If he called again, she wouldn't answer.

Not unless he showed up in person.

She passed by a broken vending machine and didn't even glance at it.

This wasn't about surviving for someone anymore.

This was survival on her terms.

If she made it out, it would be because she earned it—not because anyone came for her.

And if she didn't… well, at least she wouldn't die waiting.