Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The moment the lockdown tone faded into silence, the first rumble hit.

The ground trembled—a faint vibration at first, like the prelude to an earthquake. But it grew. Louder. Heavier.

Outside the main walls, dust clouds rose in thick columns from the western ruins. The approach of something massive. No, not something—many somethings.

"Visuals incoming," Marcus said tensely, enlarging the external feed to the main holoscreen.

Thomas leaned forward.

The sight was monstrous.

Through the ruins, hordes of infected charged—more than they'd ever faced before. Twisted humanoids, some sprinting on all fours like beasts, others hulking with grotesque muscle and bone growths. Interspersed among them were towering brutes, eight meters tall, dragging malformed limbs heavy enough to crush tanks.

And above them, filling the ash-thickened sky, hundreds of flying creatures circled like vultures waiting for the kill.

"All units," Thomas said into the mic. "Weapons free."

The MOA Complex's walls roared to life.

The outermost defenses opened fire first. M2 Brownings and salvaged Miniguns stitched the advancing front ranks with high-caliber rounds. Anti-material rifles barked from sniper nests, punching fist-sized holes through the heads and torsos of the sprinting infected.

But it was the armored lines that truly answered the challenge.

The first salvo from the Abrams tanks thundered out in coordinated unison.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

High-explosive shells tore into the massed creatures at the front, blasting craters of gore and shattered bodies. The M2 Bradleys followed, their 25mm chainguns spitting hot lead into the thickest concentrations.

Above, the Phalanx CIWS turrets shifted skyward once more, tracking the airborne nightmares diving toward the walls.

TRRRRRRTTTTTT!

Tungsten shells formed invisible barriers in the sky, shredding smaller flyers in half before they could even reach the perimeter. Bodies rained down in showers of black ichor.

"Reload patterns on Phalanx units," Marcus ordered. "Cycle fresh belts every ninety seconds."

"Copy," came the crisp response from ground control.

Inside the mall, civilians huddled deeper into their shelters as the first concussive impacts rattled the entire complex. Screams were muffled behind thick steel doors as the blast shutters absorbed the external shockwaves.

Back in the command center, Thomas moved between operators, assessing the real-time situation.

"Status on sectors west and north?" he demanded.

"West sector holding!" an officer reported. "Heavy contact! Northern wall engaging at medium range—expected contact in three minutes!"

Thomas nodded grimly. "Prepare reserves for north defense. Abrams units rotate southward when west sector stabilizes."

"Sir!" another technician called out, tapping furiously at his screen. "Large heat signatures emerging west of main boulevard ruins! Three contacts! Behemoth-class!"

Thomas moved to his side.

On the thermal feed, he saw them.

Three massive figures lumbering forward—bigger than anything they'd faced in the city so far. Each one easily the size of a two-story building, with distended torsos, quadruple-jointed limbs, and gaping maws that dripped molten plasma.

"Jesus," Marcus muttered under his breath. "They're like walking siege engines."

"Order Abrams to switch to sabot rounds," Thomas snapped. "Tell artillery to retarget for mobile bombardment. Focus on that thing!"

Outside, the tanks rotated turrets.

With a synchronized series of clunks, their autoloaders fed in fin-stabilized sabot rounds—armor-piercing darts designed for tank warfare.

The first volley fired.

The sabot rounds punched into the lead Behemoth's torso, releasing sharp bursts of black mist—but not stopping it.

The creature bellowed, the sound a deep, rattling boom that shook dust from the very ceilings.

"Not enough," Marcus growled.

"I know," Thomas said grimly. "Keep hitting it. Target joints. Cripple, then kill."

The second volley came in lower—aiming for knees, hips, and ankles. Shell after shell tore into the massive limbs, splintering bones and rupturing flesh.

One of the Behemoths stumbled—then fell with an earthshaking crash that sent dozens of sprinting infected flying.

Cheers erupted briefly on the Overwatch channels.

But there were still two more Behemoths... and hundreds more infected flooding the streets behind them.

"Sir, airborne contacts descending from east side!" another tech called out.

Thomas swung toward the eastern monitors. A new wave of the flying horrors had broken off, gliding low over the bay to flank the complex.

"Get Stinger teams to eastern rooftops!" Thomas barked. "Man-portable SAMs—prioritize intercept!"

Already, soldiers scrambled up emergency stairwells, Stinger launchers hefted over their shoulders. Some climbed onto hastily reinforced penthouses and parking structure roofs.

"Lock... lock... fire!" one soldier barked.

White smoke burst from the launcher as the missile screamed into the air.

Direct hit—one flier exploded in a burst of plasma and blackened feathers.

Another fell, trailing violet smoke.

But more kept coming.

"Marcus," Thomas said lowly, "we need air support back ASAP."

"All our Apaches are now in the air," Marcus confirmed, eyes glued to the radar. "ETA over battlefield in ninety seconds. They're loaded with full Hydra and Hellfire payloads."

Thomas gave a sharp nod. "Task Reaper Flight to prioritize airspace clearance. Break the flanking formations."

"Copy. Relaying now."

Outside, the east side of the MOA Complex erupted again as the Stinger teams reloaded and fired off another volley. More fliers spiraled down in burning wreckage, but it was clear—the rooftop teams were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

On the western front, the second Behemoth had reached the outer barriers.

The beast barreled straight into a wall section reinforced with salvaged steel beams and concrete blast panels. It slammed a massive, deformed shoulder against the barrier, sending cracks spiderwebbing across the structure.

"Wall integrity at 78 percent!" Marcus shouted. "Breaching imminent if they keep hitting it!"

"Focus fire!" Thomas barked. "West artillery—concentrate all rounds on Behemoth Two!"

Outside, the M777 batteries adjusted.

New firing solutions locked in.

WHOOMPH-WHOOMPH.

Shells rained down on the Behemoth like the wrath of the gods, blasting chunks from its armored hide. One round struck the creature's upper back—ripping free an entire slab of rotting muscle—and the monster staggered.

But it didn't fall.

It roared in defiance and slammed into the wall again.

"Third Behemoth advancing!" another officer reported frantically. "It's behind the second one—using it as a shield!"

"Smart bastards," Marcus muttered.

Thomas's mind raced.

"Reposition Abrams Alpha Team," he ordered. "Northwest firing lane. Hit them from the flank."

"Roger!"

On the battlefield, the Abrams tanks rumbled, swinging into a new arc. Their turrets rotated with mechanical precision, lining up new kill shots.

TRRRRRRRRTTTT!

The Phalanx cannons kept roaring above, carving the sky as more Apaches finally arrived, diving from altitude.

A cluster of Hellfires streaked downward, spearing into the densest concentration of infected.

Explosions tore massive gaps through the horde.

For a brief moment—just a breath—the tide seemed to falter.