Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The silence after Montano's death lingered like smoke. No sermon. No prophecy. Just the stillness of a dead man in a red-lined coat.

Thomas stood over the corpse, his weapon lowered. Around him, the tunnel still flickered with the last remnants of firelight from the broken lanterns. Ghost moved first, stepping past Thomas to sweep the corridor.

Phillip came up next, rifle scanning the corners.

"Clear," he said.

But the war wasn't over.

Behind them, the rest of the team regrouped—Shadow-3 limping, blood still seeping through a makeshift tourniquet. Shadow-6, carried on a stretcher, groaned softly but lived. Two down, but not dead.

"Secure this hall," Phillip ordered. "And check that room Montano came out of. If he had a throne, I want it flipped."

Thomas nodded, then turned down the adjacent tunnel—the one they hadn't checked yet. Something still pulsed behind the walls. A presence that didn't fade with the Prophet's fall.

The new corridor smelled different—less of ritual fire and chemicals, more of piss, bile, and despair.

He rounded the bend and saw them.

Cages.

Dozens of them.

Stacked. Lined against the walls. Iron bars bent inward from where hands had clawed for escape. Inside, survivors—barely.

Emaciated, shivering, some naked. Some curled into fetal positions. Others pressed to the bars at the sound of boots, unsure if their salvation had arrived… or if it was just another execution.

"Jesus…" Ghost whispered, stepping in behind him. "There must be forty of them."

"More," Phillip said as he caught up. "Some of them are kids."

Thomas moved forward, stopping at the first cage. A woman reached through the bars with trembling fingers, her lips cracked and bleeding. She didn't speak—just stared.

He took her hand gently. "You're safe. We're getting you out."

From the radio, Overwatch's voice crackled through.

"This is Overwatch. Medevac en route. ETA twelve minutes."

Phillip tapped his earpiece. "Tell them to bring everything. We need medical triage, sedatives, clean water, food. Oxygen too."

Some survivors were quiet. Others sobbed. But one man in the back began screaming—a high, choked wail of panic. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands twitching.

"He's infected," Shadow-5 warned, checking the scanner. "Not turned. But close. High neural spike. Could be a Scourged prototype."

"We sedate him?" Ghost asked.

"No," Thomas said quietly, looking at the man. "He's too far gone."

The team hesitated. Then Phillip nodded.

One clean shot. The screaming stopped.

They moved methodically after that.

Unlocking cages. Lifting limp bodies. Carrying those who could not walk. Tagging those beyond saving.

A boy clung to Shadow-3's vest, sobbing into her armored shoulder. "He said… he said we would be saved if we sang."

"We're saving you now," she whispered, her voice ragged but kind.

By the time the medevac team arrived, the chamber had been transformed.

Field medics flooded in, accompanied by drones hauling crates of emergency gear. IVs were deployed. Masks were strapped on. Bodies wrapped.

Some of the survivors died during treatment—shock, malnutrition, internal bleeding.

Others lived.

Thomas stood off to the side, covered in blood—none of it his, not anymore. He looked down at Montano's bloodied coat, still draped over the Prophet's corpse.

"Burn it," he said.

Phillip obliged. One of the field techs doused it in fuel. A spark. A flame.

The red satin curled and shriveled like skin.

Soon, the Prophet was ash.

"You think that's the end of them?" Ghost asked, watching the smoke rise.

"No," Thomas said, eyes narrowed. "There are always more."

"But it's the beginning of their end," Phillip added, his voice harder now.

Thomas nodded once.

Then walked out of the underground compound—leaving the darkness behind.

For now.

The morning light was still just a gray promise when the first Blackhawk thundered overhead.

The jungle clearing around the ruined chapel was thick with mist and smoke. The rot of burning bodies mingled with the sour bite of scorched wood. One Reaper drone still loitered above, scanning for anything that might move—or crawl—out of the ground.

The helicopters broke the silence like gods descending.

The first bird landed clean, rotors flattening the grass and snapping the tips of jungle ferns. A second followed behind, this one bearing the Overwatch medical insignia. Medics leapt out before the skids even kissed the mud, rushing forward with stretchers and trauma kits.

Shadow-6 was loaded up first, limp but breathing.

Then came the survivors.

Phillip coordinated the extraction, voice clipped and calm through the command channel. "Medics prioritize children and high-risk survivors. Get them hydrated, stabilized, then up. Fast. No delays."

Thomas stood near the chapel, eyes locked on its crumbling facade. The sun was starting to rise behind it, casting eerie orange light through the shattered archways. Inside, the blood was still fresh. The braziers had burned down to coals.

He didn't want that place to stand a second longer.

"Phillip," he said over comms. "Prep thermite. I want this place erased."

"Already done," came the reply.

Overwatch's engineers moved fast. Thermite charges were placed on load-bearing corners of the structure, in the altar pit, in the catacombs beneath.

Thomas stepped back with the others as the chapel was wired.

Then he lifted the detonator.

No ceremony.

Just the press of a button.

A deep whoomph rolled through the air, followed by the crackling roar of intense heat. The chapel ignited from the inside out—stone splitting, iron warping. Flame consumed the altar, the pews, the blood-soaked relics of Crimson Dawn.

It was like watching the soul of something evil scream its last breath into the morning sky.

Some of the survivors watched, too weak to speak. Some cried. Others just stared, silent and empty.

One girl—barely ten—reached up from her stretcher, hand trembling.

Thomas took it.

"You're not going back there," he told her quietly.

"Never again."

Above them, the sun finally broke through the mist. It cast long shadows across the wreckage, golden and warm. Smoke curled upward, vanishing into blue sky.

As the last bird lifted off—its skids heavy with wounded, rescued, and battle-worn warriors—Thomas looked down one final time at the smoldering ruin.

Elias Montano was gone.

The chapel was ash.

And whatever came next... Overwatch would be ready.

[Mission Complete!]