Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The wailing of sirens echoed across the MOA Complex as the alarm blared to life.

Red warning lights bathed the airfields and perimeter walls in a harsh glow. Soldiers sprinted to designated posts. Anti-air batteries—systems that had been hastily welded together from salvaged Patriot launchers, Phalanx CIWS turrets, and locally-upgraded missile systems—whirred and locked into firing positions.

"Spectre Actual to Command," the battered AC-130 pilot called. His voice was strained. "We're final approach. Twenty seconds out. Hull compromised. Rear stabilizers damaged. Requesting immediate cover fire."

"You're cleared," Thomas replied. "AA batteries are online. Marcus?"

"Anti-air network primed. Sector North and West turrets locked on. East and South warming up."

On the tarmac, the ground crews scrambled, flares in hand, illuminating the landing zones with green markers. Emergency teams with hoses and welding kits waited near the hangars.

Through monitors, Thomas watched the Spectre's approach—its heavy fuselage shuddering as it fought against crosswinds and the invisible pressure of the incoming swarm.

"Visual on Spectre!" Marcus barked.

But they weren't alone.

From the bruised sky behind the AC-130, a pack of flying nightmares emerged—twenty, maybe more. Half were grotesque bird-things, their ragged wings gliding on air currents; the rest were unclassified, squirming forms with too many limbs and plasma-dripping maws.

"Anti-air units!" Thomas roared. "Priority fire on incoming hostiles! Spectre gets through no matter what!"

The complex's defenses activated in full.

The Phalanx CIWS units—their six-barrel 20mm Vulcan cannons—spun up with a furious whine.

TRRRRRRRRRRRRT!

Streams of tungsten rounds laced the sky in brilliant tracer fire, drawing crimson lines that intersected the incoming swarm. Several creatures were shredded instantly, their bodies bursting into showers of black blood and molten plasma.

Missile pods barked from the improvised Patriot batteries, smoke trails cutting into the heavens.

Two, three direct hits—winged monsters spiraled out of the air, crashing into nearby ruined skyscrapers and erupting into pulsing violet fireballs.

But for every one that fell, two more closed in.

"Spectre, on final! Gear down!" the pilot called, voice hoarse with focus.

The AC-130 lumbered in low, its underbelly inches from scraping the tops of nearby ruined buildings. Sparks danced as a loose antenna from a half-demolished office tower snagged against the fuselage before breaking free.

"Come on," Thomas muttered, watching. "Come on, damn you."

One monster slammed into the Spectre's port wing, gnawing and clawing at the already-strained strut.

"Port wing compromised!" the systems officer cried.

Without hesitation, the Spectre's side gunners swung their 25mm Bushmaster cannons out of transport lock.

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

The shells punched through the creature at point-blank range, tearing its midsection apart and sending its remains spiraling toward the golf course outside the perimeter.

"Spectre down to one operational engine!" the pilot reported. "Hard landing imminent!"

"Clear the deck!" Thomas barked.

The emergency crew at the strip scattered back as the Spectre's rear wheels slammed into the concrete, sparks flying as the brakes screamed under the load. The nose slammed down a moment later, gouging deep scars into the landing strip, the entire aircraft groaning like a wounded animal.

Finally—it skidded to a violent halt just meters from the edge of the runway.

"Spectre down! Repeat, Spectre down but intact!" a ground officer shouted.

Cheers erupted briefly—but were cut short by another alarm.

"More airborne hostiles inbound!"

Above, the Warthog—out of ammo, running fumes—roared in low over the bay, struggling to stay ahead of the remaining flyers.

Thomas seized the mic. "Warthog One, vector to Runway Two. AA will clear your path!"

"Copy, Command. Coming in dirty and low."

The A-10 pilot wrestled his controls, jinking erratically as two of the remaining airborne beasts latched onto his six.

"Anti-air! Lock onto tail contacts trailing Warthog One! Priority fire!" Marcus ordered.

Within seconds, a Phalanx turret near the southern control tower pivoted and opened fire.

TRRRRRRTTT!

A solid stream of 20mm shells hammered the space behind the A-10. One creature was caught mid-dive, blown apart in a fountain of blood and shattered bone. Another was grazed, spiraling wildly before slamming into an abandoned shopping complex adjacent to the field.

The way cleared, the Warthog dropped its landing gear and hit the strip hard, tires smoking.

Thomas exhaled. "Warthog down safe?"

"Affirmative!" came the ground officer's shout. "Bird intact. Pilot climbing out!"

Inside the command center, Marcus updated the screens rapidly. "Spectre secured. Warthog secured. No loss of pilots."

Thomas allowed himself a second—a single second—of relief.

Then his gaze snapped back to the horizon.

The radar feed showed it: the endless swarm still approaching.

Not just air units anymore.

Ground units too.

"Get the secondary defense grid active!" Thomas ordered. "Deploy the Abrams! Get the Bradleys moving! Fortify the northern and western sectors!"

Sirens screamed again. Heavy engines rumbled to life. M1 Abrams tanks rolled from reinforced hangars, tracks grinding over cracked asphalt. M2 Bradley IFVs followed, their turrets swiveling into combat posture.

Above them, anti-air missiles reset their locks, cycling targeting data for the next wave.

Across the outer walls of the Complex, hundreds of soldiers from Overwatch forces—infantry, engineers, heavy weapon teams—rushed into defensive lines. Heavy machine guns were mounted on sandbagged posts. Snipers took up overwatch positions on rooftop nests.

In the underground bunkers, reserves prepped the last-resort defenses—man-portable SAMs, and even ATGs.

As the last defensive orders echoed through the command center, the overhead speakers inside the MOA Complex crackled to life.

A calm yet firm automated voice flooded every hallway, every corridor, every public chamber:

"Attention all civilians. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. All non-combatants are to proceed immediately to designated shelter areas. Stay indoors. Follow emergency personnel instructions. The MOA Complex is now on full lockdown."

Inside the mall's cavernous interiors, families, scavengers, and traders—ordinary survivors who had sought safety within the massive walls—froze for a moment at the announcement. Then, panic briefly surged. Emergency marshals in Overwatch uniforms quickly moved among the crowds, guiding them firmly but steadily toward the nearest hardened shelters: retrofitted theaters, underground service tunnels, fortified storerooms.

Heavy blast doors began sliding shut over the main entrances. Steel shutters descended across storefronts and atriums. Portable barricades and automated turrets locked into place at key choke points.

From the outside, the MOA Complex still looked massive.

But now, it was a fortress fully sealed for war.

Inside the command center, Thomas heard the final tone confirming lockdown.

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

The civilians were secured.

Now, it was war.