Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

31 Days Since First Strike — Southern Quezon Province, Perimeter Recon

A thin fog clung to the treetops as the Overwatch tiltrotor swept low over the canopy. Below, dense jungle stretched for miles—endless green broken only by the bones of old logging roads and the occasional ruined watchtower swallowed by foliage. This was one of the last unscouted regions on Luzon's southern interior.

Thomas Estaris leaned forward in his seat, visor down, eyes locked on the real-time topographic feed projected on his datapad. "We've never surveyed this area?"

Phillip, seated across from him, shook his head. "Pre-Fall charts mark this as low-priority terrain. Too mountainous, too remote. No functioning roads."

"And ground?"

"None," Phillip confirmed. "Not since the old world."

The pilot's voice crackled over comms. "Commander, picking up thermal anomalies—low and steady. It's not a fire. Looks like controlled heat sources. Possibly chimneys. There's more than one."

Thomas raised a brow. "Coordinates?"

"Southern ridge. Just past the river basin. We're circling now."

He turned to Phillip. "Put us down. Not close enough to spook them, but within reach on foot."

Deep Forest — Thirty Minutes Later

The jungle was still. No distant groans of infected. No birdsong either. Just the crunch of boots through wet undergrowth and the low hum of the Overwatch recon drone floating ahead of the squad.

Shadow Team 3 moved with practiced silence, clearing the path through thick bamboo and creeper vines. Thomas and Phillip followed behind, both wearing light armor under their coats.

"Look at this," one of the soldiers whispered, pointing to a broken path of old stones half-buried in moss. "These weren't laid by nature."

Thomas crouched, brushing aside leaves. The stones formed a faded trail—possibly a decades-old footpath, long forgotten.

The drone paused ahead, hovering. Then its camera feed shifted—revealing smoke trails, wooden structures, and solar panels poking above the treeline.

Thomas narrowed his eyes. "That's not ruins."

It was a village. A hidden one.

They approached slowly, weapons holstered but ready. From behind a barricade made of sharpened logs and scavenged rebar, a figure emerged—a man in a dusty cloak, holding a long hunting rifle. He didn't raise it, but he didn't lower it either.

"You're not infected," the man said. His voice was calm, but guarded. "You're not bandits either."

"No," Thomas replied. "We're from Overwatch."

The name had weight. The man blinked, glancing over their equipment. He waved once, and two more guards emerged from the trees, lowering makeshift crossbows and converted shotguns.

"I'm Raul," he said. "We've been out here… a long time."

"How long?" Phillip asked.

Raul's face was sun-worn. "Thirtheen months."

Thomas exhaled quietly.

Raul turned. "Follow me. You'll want to see this for yourselves."

They descended into a shallow basin, hidden from aerial view by the slope of the terrain. It was larger than expected—dozens of huts, some built from salvaged materials, others woven from forest resources. Small wind turbines spun lazily, connected to repurposed batteries. Bucket gardens hung from railings. A few solar panels blinked with weak light. Smoke curled from brick chimneys.

Children played barefoot in the dirt while a woman stirred a large pot over an open fire. Guards patrolled the ridge above, scanning the horizon with binoculars and home-built spotting scopes.

But what caught Thomas's eye was a canvas banner strung across the central post:

"Redsand — 17 Months of Survival"

Raul led them into a circular hut near the center. "We didn't think anyone else made it," he said. "We stayed quiet. Hiding worked. But recently… the sky changed."

"The strikes," Thomas said. "You saw them."

Raul nodded. "We thought the end had already come. Then it came again—with fire."

Around the room sat a group of leaders—though none carried formal ranks. A medic with faded scrubs. A carpenter. A young scout with a radio strapped to his chest. A woman who introduced herself as Mira, former schoolteacher, now overseeing their resource storage.

"We live off what we can grow, trap, or scavenge," Mira explained. "No electricity beyond what the sun gives. No contact outside. Our old radios died last year."

"And no Bloom?" Phillip asked.

Raul shook his head. "Not here. Something about the winds or maybe the terrain. We saw them in the valleys, sure—but they never came this deep."

Thomas folded his hands. "We're rebuilding. Cities. Trade lines. Defense zones. The infected are thinning, but they're not gone. What you have here is… remarkable. But it won't last forever."

"You're asking us to leave," the medic said quietly.

"No," Thomas said. "I'm asking you to join. Stay here if you must. But link to us. Send people. Let us help."

The scout spoke up. "And what do we give you?"

"Knowledge," Thomas said. "Experience. Medics. Growers. People who know how to live when systems collapse."

"And if we say no?" Raul asked.

Thomas didn't blink. "Then we leave. But the next variant might not knock."

Thomas stood near the edge of the compound, watching a group of children chase a wheel down a path, their laughter cutting through the night like a warm breeze. Lanterns swayed gently. A young woman strummed a guitar missing its high E string. Across the basin, an old generator thumped, powering a single lamppost beside the storage shed.

Phillip joined him, offering a plate of roasted root and salted meat. "They've got more order than most cities we've seen."

Thomas nodded. "Seventeen months. Hidden. No external supply. That's not luck. That's leadership."

"You think they'll vote yes?"

"They wouldn't have opened the gate if they didn't want something more."

A bell rang.

Dozens gathered under the starlit sky. Raul stood at the center, speaking without notes.

"Seventeen months ago, the world ended. But we didn't. We held on. We adapted. But now the fire's back—not to burn us—but to clean the rot. Overwatch found us. And now we decide. Do we stay ghosts? Or do we rejoin the living?"

No shouting. No grand speeches. Just quiet votes cast into a woven basket.

Thirty minutes later, Raul returned.

"Sixty-eight in favor. Twenty-three against. We'll send delegates. Medics. Builders. Redsand joins the effort."

Thomas offered his hand.

Raul took it.

"We'll be part of something again."

Back in the control room, the digital map of Luzon updated. A new sector—previously blank—glowed faint green.

[NEW CONTACT ESTABLISHED: REDSAND COLLECTIVE]

Status: Integrated

Population Gained: 141

Profession Tags: Medic, Carpenter, Farmer, Scout

Dr. Sato reviewed the data. "Their designs are crude but functional. If we install just two relays, we can link them to Lucena's grid. That opens the southern access corridor."

Keplar added, "And their scout's drone tech—it's cobbled together, but adaptive. Could help extend our recon range without risking pilots."

Phillip sat back. "One more piece in the puzzle."

Thomas didn't say anything for a moment.

Then he stepped forward and pointed at the untouched regions on the map.

"Prep another survey run," he said. "This wasn't the last."