Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

For a moment, everything was still.

The fires crackled. Smoke twisted in the air like dying serpents. Shadow Team remained low behind cover, weapons still raised, scanning the molten crater ahead of them.

Inside the command center, Thomas leaned closer to the main screen. His knuckles were white against the edge of the table. He was waiting. Listening. Hoping for that one chime—the system alert that always confirmed a kill.

It never came.

Instead, the ground began to rumble again.

"Seismic activity!" Marcus shouted. His console lit up with warning markers. "Localized under the crater!"

Phillip's voice burst across the comms. "Command, we've got movement! It's still alive!"

Before anyone could react, the ashen pit exploded outward. Flaming debris and shattered concrete rained down like shrapnel. From the center, the thing that had once been cocooned inside the Worm clawed free.

It wasn't humanoid anymore.

It had transformed—part skeletal, part bioplasmic horror. Its chest pulsed with violet light, and whiplike tendrils lashed from its back. Its height had grown—nearly five meters now—and its elongated limbs snapped and twisted unnaturally as it tore free of the wreckage.

It let out a sound—somewhere between a shriek and a thunderclap—and the very air seemed to vibrate.

"Target reacquired!" Marcus barked. "Hostile is mobile!"

Thomas slammed his fist into the console. "All air units, re-engage! Hit it with everything you have!"

But the screens around them blinked red.

"Sir," Marcus said grimly. "Warthog One is down to 20% ammo. They have one gun run left before Winchester."

"And Spectre?" Thomas demanded.

"Two shells. That's it. They're almost bingo fuel, too. They'll need RTB after the next pass."

Thomas clenched his jaw. "Damn it."

He pressed the comms again. "Reaper Flight, Warthog, Spectre—you are weapons free. Full release. After that, RTB for rearmament and refuel."

The responses came quick and crisp.

"Reaper One, solid copy."

"Spectre confirms."

"Warthog One, locked and loaded."

Above Cubao, the battered A-10 swung into its final run. Its nose dipped low, cannon spinning up one last time.

BRRRRTTT.

A stream of depleted uranium rounds slammed into the creature's side, tearing flesh and bone alike. Pieces flew off in burning chunks, but the monster didn't falter—it howled, its body already knitting back together in sickening flashes of violet light.

Following behind, the AC-130 Spectre lined up for its last shot.

"Target sighted. Firing."

The 105mm cannon thundered, sending a shell straight into the creature's left shoulder. A second shot followed a heartbeat later, slamming into its center of mass. Explosions tore open its torso, revealing writhing strands of muscle and plasma underneath.

Smoke billowed. Debris rained down.

And yet—it remained standing.

Barely.

"Sir, they're Winchester," Marcus reported. "Warthog and Spectre are returning to base. ETA for rearm and re-sortie is minimum thirty minutes."

Thomas exhaled through his nose slowly, thinking fast. "Order them back. Safe route. Tell maintenance to fast-track reloads the moment they touch down."

He turned back toward the battlefield map.

"What about artillery?" he asked.

Marcus grimaced. "Paladins are reloading, but HIMARS and M777s are spent. It'll take fifteen minutes to rotate fresh shells."

Fifteen minutes.

An eternity in a fight like this.

"Get me a rotation schedule. We don't let that thing breathe," Thomas snapped.

Below, Phillip's voice came through the open channel.

"Command, this is Shadow 0-1. We're still on-site. Monster's wounded but not dropping. We're moving to secondary cover—close to the eastern block ruins."

Thomas pressed the mic. "Stay low, stay mobile. Engage only if necessary. Your priority is survival until air assets return."

"Understood, sir."

Phillip led his team at a dead sprint through the rubble-choked streets, moving from cratered walls to shattered storefronts. Dust and plasma vapor filled the air, making visibility near impossible.

"Stay tight!" Phillip ordered, motioning with his hand. "Watch for tendrils!"

Behind them, the creature shifted. Its violet glow pulsed faster now—unstable, flickering like a dying star on the verge of collapse. But even a dying star could destroy everything around it.

Inside the command center, Thomas turned toward the lab deck where Calix monitored the biosignatures.

"What's happening to it?" he demanded.

Calix's fingers flew across the sensor interface. "It's in a state of biological overdrive. Plasma generation is unstable. If it releases that energy uncontrolled…"

She trailed off. She didn't need to finish the sentence.

Thomas finished it for her. "It'll blow half the goddamn city off the map."

Marcus paled. "Sir, if that thing detonates—"

"—We lose Cubao, maybe more."

But the creature didn't move.

Not immediately.

It just stood there—smoke trailing from the gaping wounds torn across its frame, violet plasma leaking from cracks in its armor. The tendrils on its back twitched occasionally, spasming like dying nerves, but it made no attempt to attack or advance.

It simply stood.

Breathing.

Regenerating.

Inside the command center, Thomas leaned heavily on the edge of the table, frustration simmering under the surface of his calm exterior. Every second they wasted, that thing knitted itself back together. Every minute without fire support, it grew stronger.

"Why isn't it attacking?" Marcus muttered under his breath, tapping rapidly at his console. "It's just... standing there."

Dr. Calix's voice was tight. "It's stalling. Gathering energy. Healing itself. If we give it enough time—"

"It'll be worse than before," Thomas finished grimly.

He clenched his fists tighter. They had thrown everything at it—artillery, aerial strikes, thermobarics—and yet it refused to die. It was as if this monster was designed not just to endure punishment, but to evolve from it.

"Sir," a flight controller called out suddenly. "Spectre's radar sweep just pinged... something."

Thomas turned sharply. "Define 'something.'"

The controller's face paled slightly as he expanded the radar feed onto the main holoprojector.

A new series of blips appeared—small, fast-moving contacts converging toward Cubao.

Lots of them.

Marcus's voice was low, almost a whisper.

"Sir... those aren't ours."

The room fell silent again, the tension coiling like a drawn bowstring.

Thomas's eyes narrowed as he stared at the incoming swarm.

"Looks like we're not fighting just one enemy anymore," he muttered.

The screen blinked again—closer.