Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The alarm blared across the MOA Complex, its mechanical wail cutting through the stillness like a blade. Red strobes pulsed along corridors, stairwells, and open plazas. Overwatch's central defense grid had gone from green to yellow in under three minutes—then snapped into flashing red.

Inside the command center, personnel scrambled into motion. Coffee mugs were left half-full, chairs overturned, datapads slid across the floor. Emergency floodlights clicked on, casting the steel interior in a cold white glow.

"Bring up Reaper feeds!" barked Sergeant Del Rosario.

Screens flickered—then stabilized into multiple infrared views of the advancing mass. Sector L-3 was flooded with heat signatures. The horde was not shambling like scattered infected. This was no random migration. This was organized. Directed.

"Estimated strength: fifteen hundred," an analyst reported, sweat glistening under her headset. "Moving at three kilometers per hour. Expected contact with MOA perimeter in sixty minutes."

"Where the hell did they all come from?" Del Rosario muttered.

"Unknown," the analyst replied. "But this isn't just a wave. It's a surge."

03:04 AM — Overwatch HQ

Below the stars, the roof was alive with tension. Helicopter rotors chopped the humid air. JLTVs rumbled out of the garage bay. Sirens from the fortified eastern gate wailed intermittently. Soldiers in mismatched fatigues loaded crates of 5.56mm and 7.62mm ammunition into armored trucks. Heavy weapons teams carried launchers and belt-fed machine guns like iron totems.

Thomas Estaris stood at the edge of the rooftop helipad, wind whipping through his coat.

"Bring the M1A2s to Phase Line Echo," he ordered, holding a secure tablet. "I want both tanks dug in on the southern approach. Make sure they're armed with canister shot and depleted uranium SABOTs. If they breach the barricade, we go to HEAT shells."

Beside him, Colonel Sison nodded sharply. "What about air support?"

"We're activating Spooky One," Thomas said. "It's already in the air, loitering ten clicks east. Give it infrared mapping and fire permissions when the frontline opens."

"And the Warthogs?"

"They'll make a pass in fifteen."

Sison hesitated. "That close to the Complex?"

"We don't have the luxury of distance."

03:15 AM — Southern Perimeter, Roxas Boulevard

The hum of diesel engines echoed in the dark as two M1A2 Abrams tanks rolled into position behind concrete barricades reinforced with steel plates and welded shipping containers. The ground shook with their weight.

Gunmetal grey and bearing the Overwatch insignia, the tanks turned their turrets southeast, where the South Luzon Expressway funneled into a choke point past the ruins of Baclaran Church.

Inside the lead tank, "Judgment One," the commander lowered his headset. "Load canister."

"Canister loaded," his gunner replied, hands slick with sweat.

"Thermals active. Eyes on the highway."

From their vantage, they could already see them.

Figures.

Hundreds.

Flowing between overturned buses and burnt civilian vehicles.

Their movements were jerky. Spasmodic. But unrelenting.

A tide of death.

03:22 AM — Sky Above Metro Manila

The AC-130U "Spooky One" drifted silently at 9,000 feet, orbiting the MOA perimeter. Its infrared sensors painted the earth in grayscale. The horde appeared like a spreading oil slick—red-hot in the thermal spectrum, boiling toward the city.

Inside, weapons officers manned consoles, fingers dancing over targeting input. The aircraft's arsenal was brutal: a 25mm GAU-12 Equalizer rotary cannon, a 40mm Bofors autocannon, and the massive 105mm howitzer at the rear.

"Target lock acquired," the gunner said. "Engaging."

From the clouds, a flash.

The 105mm roared, sending a high-explosive shell screaming into the advancing horde.

A heartbeat later, the ground erupted.

03:25 AM — Ground Level, Battle Begins

The first canister round from Judgment One tore through the night with a deafening roar. At close range, it was a shotgun the size of a truck. Hundreds of tungsten balls ripped down the avenue, shredding flesh and bone. The front line of the horde collapsed in a shower of viscera, but more kept coming.

The second Abrams, "Vigil Two," followed up with a 40mm autocannon burst—rapid thuds echoing across Roxas Boulevard as it cut down swaths of charging infected. Its secondary coaxial MG spat 7.62mm rounds like a chainsaw.

From atop nearby buildings, Overwatch infantry opened fire. Marksmen used suppressed SCAR-H rifles, targeting the faster ones—the "Twitchers" who could close fifty meters in seconds. Below, machine gunners on sandbagged emplacements kept their barrels red-hot with M240 and M249 bursts.

"Hold the line!" barked Captain Mendoza, running from post to post. "Focus fire on the lead clumps! Let the tanks handle the center!"

03:30 AM — Spooky's Hellfire

Another shell dropped.

Then another.

And another.

The 105mm shells came in rhythm, hammering the horde's rear columns, throwing bodies high into the air like ragdolls. Between shots, the 40mm Bofors lit up, walking a trail of explosions through side streets the infected tried to use as flanking routes.

Still they came.

And now, they were close.

So close.

**

03:34 AM — MOA Complex Outer Gate

Prowling between IFVs and JLTVs, Thomas inspected the front as soldiers rechecked their weapons. He paused beside a medic applying gauze to a soldier's arm—an injury from panic during loading.

"We're good here," she said.

"Good doesn't exist tonight," Thomas replied. "Only better."

Just then, a radio crackled.

"This is Reaper One-Two. Be advised, multiple 'Goliath' signatures detected at grid B-5. Estimated ETA: twenty minutes."

Silence followed the transmission. Soldiers stopped. Eyes turned.

"Confirm," Thomas said, gripping the handset.

"Confirmed, sir. At least three Goliaths. All inbound."

03:45 AM — Rooftop Snipers, Observation Deck

"Got one!"

A sniper perched atop Conrad's rooftop exhaled as he adjusted his M107 .50 BMG. His first shot had turned a crawler's head into red mist.

His spotter peered through binos. "Right flank. Runner. Moving fast."

"On it."

The sniper adjusted—then fired.

Down below, the runner's torso exploded, tumbling backward into the crowd.

03:49 AM — The Goliaths Arrive

They came through smoke and ruin.

Ten feet tall. Hulking masses of mutated flesh and muscle, fused with debris and bone. Their skin cracked and rippled like old leather stretched over a furnace.

The first one roared—and charged the barricade.

Vigil Two's gunner was already waiting. "Firing SABOT!"

The shell punched clean through the monster's torso, exiting in a burst of blood and shattered spine. The Goliath staggered—but didn't fall.

"HEAT round! Now!"

The second shot struck center mass. This time, the explosive force disintegrated its torso. The beast collapsed, limbs twitching.

But two more followed, smashing aside infected in their way like bowling pins.

"Rocket teams! Left flank!" Thomas shouted over the noise.

A pair of Overwatch soldiers knelt behind a burned-out truck, shouldering M72 LAWs.

"Fire!"

Twin trails of smoke streaked through the air. One rocket hit dead center, blasting the second Goliath's leg off. It toppled with a scream.

The third, however, reached the barricade.

With both arms, it slammed down on a transport truck—crushing the engine and sending shrapnel flying.

A nearby soldier was flung against a wall.

"Spooky, this is Overwatch Ground. Target Goliath—Sector C-2!"

"Roger that. Firing."

Seconds later, a 105mm shell turned the creature into a crater.

04:15 AM — Aftermath

The last of the infected were being cleared.

Spotlights lit the expressway. Bulldozers pushed mangled corpses into trenches while flamethrower units sterilized the area with fire. The scent of burnt flesh drifted over the bay.

Thomas stood on the shattered boulevard, boots covered in ash and blood.

Beside him, Colonel Sison was finishing casualty reports.

"Seventeen injured. Three fatalities. Ammo expenditure… high. But we held."

Thomas said nothing at first. He looked toward the southern horizon.

"Where did they come from?" he asked softly.

"No idea," Sison admitted. "It wasn't random."

"No," Thomas said. "It was a test."

He turned away, silent for a long moment.

"Double the recon flights. Triple the drones. And tell our engineers—I want auto-turret emplacements by next week."

"We'll make it happen."

They walked together toward the Complex—its walls still standing, its people still alive.

But the message had been clear.

The dead weren't finished.

And somewhere in the dark, something—someone—had sent them.

And it would send more

As the fires of battle died down, the wounded were brought in on stretchers, some conscious, others unconscious and pale from blood loss. The infirmary tents glowed dimly in the half-light, medics rushing between patients as IV bags were hung and saline flushed into exposed veins.

Thomas walked slowly through the courtyard, now littered with spent brass, cratered asphalt, and the scent of charred rot. His rifle was slung across his back, his gloves stained black and red. A toddler clung to her mother near the cafeteria, both wrapped in emergency blankets, their wide eyes fixed on the soot-streaked defenders returning from the front.

He passed a scorched IFV with a shattered left tread, its top hatch open and smoking. An Overwatch technician was already inside, running diagnostics, cursing under his breath.

"Will it run again?" Thomas asked, pausing.

The technician looked up, startled, then nodded hesitantly. "If I can get new track links and a coolant flush, maybe by dawn. But she's cooked, sir."

Thomas gave a short nod and moved on.

04:30 AM — Central Plaza

Rebecca stood under the canopy of the nursery ward, arms folded, staring at the flickering surveillance monitor showing Sector L-3's aftermath. Amara slept in the room behind her, oblivious to the chaos that had nearly reached her doorstep.

She didn't flinch when Thomas approached. Instead, she exhaled quietly and asked, "Is it over?"

"For tonight," he replied.

"You think this is the end?"

"I think so, the zombies are getting desperate to launch a siege."

Rebecca met his gaze. "Then we do everything it takes to win this battle."

He reached out and gently touched her hand. "We will."

Overhead, the last of the Reaper drones arced across the bruised sky. Their silent wings vanished into the dark—searching, watching.

Whatever had woken in the depths of the city wasn't done yet. The siege had been a warning.

And Overwatch had just passed its first real test.