Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The radar screen pulsed violently now—five new contacts moving fast from the northeast, low over the ruined skyline. The spectrograms showed irregular wingbeats, jagged flight paths. They weren't drones. They weren't aircraft.

They were alive.

"Spectre Actual to Command!" crackled the voice over the priority channel. "We've got multiple airborne hostiles inbound! Five large contacts—closing fast! We do not have enough air-to-air ordnance to engage!"

Thomas's heart sank for half a second—but only half.

"Stay defensive," he snapped into the mic. "Deploy countermeasures. Warthog One, divert and assist. You are cleared to engage hostile air targets."

"Copy that, Command. Redirecting," came the pilot's calm response, even as the urgency thickened in the air.

On the external cameras mounted along the Spectre's fuselage, the shapes became visible—monstrous silhouettes slicing through the heavy clouds.

Each was grotesque—half humanoid, half avian nightmare. Their skeletal wings beat with unnatural force, feathers mottled with decay and plasma burns. Razor-sharp talons gleamed under the dying sun, and elongated beaks snapped hungrily at the air as they closed the distance.

Inside the Spectre, alarms blared. The crew rushed to battle stations, but everyone knew it—the AC-130 was designed for ground attack, not dogfighting flying beasts.

"Incoming!" the copilot yelled.

The first monster struck.

It slammed into the right side of the Spectre, claws screeching across the armor plates. One talon ripped into the sensor array, sending a shower of sparks spiraling away into the sky.

The gunner at the 40mm station swiveled his cannon desperately, tracking the blurred form as it latched onto the wing strut. He squeezed the trigger.

THUD-THUD-THUD!

The shells exploded outward, missing by meters as the creature clung tenaciously.

Another one dove in, slashing across the fuselage. It ripped into the outer skin, tearing up the rear communications antennae. Warning lights flared across the cockpit.

"Minor hull breach, tail section!" the systems officer barked. "Stabilizers holding—for now!"

Thomas listened grimly from the command center.

"Warthog, where are you?!" he demanded.

"Two clicks out," Warthog One replied tightly. "Visual on targets. Engaging."

Below them, the A-10 banked hard into a brutal climb.

The pilot squeezed the trigger.

The GAU-8/A Avenger cannon spun up with its terrifying roar—BRRRRTTT!—spewing a storm of depleted uranium rounds into the sky.

The rounds lanced into the lead monster, tearing through one wing. The creature shrieked, spinning wildly as it lost lift and spiraled down in a trail of violet plasma.

"Target down!" Warthog confirmed. "Adjusting on second contact!"

But even as one fell, the remaining four creatures kept attacking.

The Spectre bucked in the air as another beast clawed along the upper fuselage, trying to rip through the dorsal armor to get inside.

"Deploy flares!" the Spectre's captain ordered.

The defensive officer slapped the countermeasures release.

Flares spat from both sides of the aircraft—dozens of them, glowing like miniature suns.

The creatures reacted immediately—hissing and recoiling from the searing heat and light.

One peeled away, veering off into the clouds with a frustrated screech. Another faltered, momentarily stunned by a flare bursting too close to its head.

The Spectre banked hard left, trying to use its momentum to shake off the clinging monsters.

"Warthog, second pass! Now!" Marcus shouted through the channel.

"On it!"

The A-10 swung around like a sledgehammer, lining up its second gun run.

The pilot's reticle blinked red over two targets struggling midair.

He squeezed again.

BRRRRTTT.

The stream of rounds tore one creature's chest open. It convulsed midair and fell like a stone, splattering somewhere in the ruins below. The third creature took glancing hits—wounded but not dead—falling back, screeching with rage.

"Ammo low!" the Warthog pilot called. "One more burst—max!"

He lined up the last surviving monster still latched to the Spectre's side.

This time, he didn't miss.

The final burst of 30mm rounds stitched across the beast's spine, breaking it apart in midair. The body tumbled away into the fog of smoke and ash rising from the ruins.

Inside the Spectre, the crew exhaled raggedly.

"Damage control reports outer hull breach, rear quarter," the systems officer said. "Flight systems operational. Stabilizers strained but holding."

"Spectre to Command," the captain reported. "Remaining contacts neutralized. We're heading back to base. Hull integrity compromised—we can't stay in the air much longer."

Thomas pressed the comm. "Acknowledged, Spectre. You're clear to RTB. Good work."

On the radar feed, the battered icon of the Spectre banked southward, limping back toward the safety of the MOA Complex.

"Warthog One, ammo?" Thomas asked.

"Zero. Winchester. Heading home," the pilot confirmed.

Thomas nodded grimly. They had survived—but barely.

He turned back to Marcus. "Get maintenance crews prepped. I want that bird patched and rearmed the second it touches ground."

"Already on it," Marcus replied.

Below, Phillip and Shadow Team saw the last of the monsters fall from the sky. They crouched in the ruins, breathing hard, eyes scanning the horizon for more threats.

"Shadow 0-1 to Command," Phillip called. "Spectre made it out. Area seems clear... for now."

Thomas pressed the mic. "Good. Hold position. Support will return soon."

The command center settled into a tense, uneasy silence.

Outside, Cubao burned.

Above the smoldering city, the sky darkened again—not from clouds, but from something else.

Something vast.

Something that blotted out what little sunlight remained.

Marcus looked up from the radar feed, his face pale.

"Sir," he said slowly. "New contacts inbound."

Thomas stiffened. "How many?"

Marcus swallowed. "Too many to count."

The screen blinked once—then again—flooding with new signals.

The second wave had arrived.

Thomas's breath hitched, a cold knot forming in his chest as the entire holographic map lit up like a cursed Christmas tree.

Blips. Hundreds of them.

Moving fast. Converging from all directions—north, east, south. Even from the coastline.

"Composition analysis?" Thomas demanded sharply.

Marcus shook his head, hands flying across the keyboard. "Mix of biological and unknown signatures. Some airborne. Some ground-based. Different sizes... lots of them."

At the bottom of the screen, new classifications began auto-generating: Behemoth-class. Feral-class. Reaper-class. Names they had never seen before.

The system struggled to catalog them all.

"Sir," a technician called out from the back, voice barely controlled. "Some of them are bigger than anything we've faced before."

Thomas's eyes narrowed. His knuckles whitened.

"Sound the Complex-wide alarm," he ordered. His voice was low but unshakable. "Prepare all defenses. Mobilize every asset."

He stared grimly at the incoming storm.

"The real battle is about to begin."