Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The bunker door gave way with a muffled crack, the detonation of the precision charge barely louder than a dropped helmet. Smoke curled from the breach as Phillip stepped forward, rifle up, visor shimmering with IR overlays.

"Gas trace?"

"Negative," Shadow-6 confirmed, sweeping the opening with a handheld sensor. "Trap was a dud or rigged incomplete. Nerve agent would have blown with more pressure. They meant it as a scare tactic."

"Scare or not, they knew we were coming. And I am kind of liking their ingenuinety here." Thomas muttered.

The hatch yawned open before them, revealing a steep staircase descending into blackness. No lights. No sound. Just the damp stink of mold and rust—and beneath that, the unmistakable reek of rot.

"Stack up," Phillip ordered.

The team moved quickly, single file, rifles up, masks sealed.

Thomas took second position, behind Ghost. He could feel the heat radiating from the narrow stairwell, unnatural and stale.

They descended.

**

Fifteen steps.

Thirty.

Then the walls changed.

The raw concrete gave way to something older. Brick, maybe. Limestone, damp and cracked. Candles lined the hallway, unlit but melted down to stubs. Finger-sized scratch marks etched the mortar.

"Movement ahead," whispered Shadow-4. "Faint. Breathing."

Phillip nodded once. The line paused.

Ahead, the hallway opened into a circular room. Cells lined the perimeter—bars rusted, some doors hanging open. Inside the cages were bodies.

Too thin. Too small. Some slumped in corners. Some sprawled flat. One child pressed her forehead to the bars, eyes wide, mouth stitched shut.

Thomas froze.

"...Jesus Christ."

Ghost moved forward. "No heat signatures. All cold. They're dead."

Phillip scanned the room. One of the cells was still warm—fresh blood on the floor, a trail leading into another tunnel.

"They're moving victims deeper," he said. "Keep going."

They followed the blood trail into a descending corridor. The humming returned—faint at first, but growing louder.

Chanting.

"The Flame devours... the flesh dissolves... the soul ascends..."

The passage opened again, this time into a chamber lit with fire.

A circle of veiled figures stood around a stone altar. Shackles lined the floor. A body lay across the slab. Woman. Alive. Gagged. Eyes wild.

"Move!" Thomas ordered.

Flashbangs were tossed. The room erupted in chaos. Gunfire. Screams.

Veils fell.

Men with syringes lunged toward the operators. One jabbed at Shadow-2. Missed. Got shot point blank in the face.

Another flung herself into the fire, laughing.

The woman on the altar shrieked, kicking.

Thomas sprinted forward. Cut the binds. Dragged her clear.

Behind him, Ghost crushed a cultist against the wall with his boot, muzzle pressing into his neck. "Where is Montano?"

"He is here!" the man grinned. "He sees you."

A shot rang out.

Ghost stepped back. "We don't need riddles."

The woman was sobbing now, clutching Thomas.

Phillip stepped up. "We need to go deeper."

"There's more?"

"Yeah," Phillip said. "There's a set of reinforced doors on the far side. EM signal leads through there. That has to be the nerve center."

Thomas turned to the rescued woman. "Did you see him? The one they call the Prophet?"

She nodded, eyes shaking.

"He wears white. Not robes. Not like the others. A coat. Red inside."

Thomas rose slowly, chambering a round.

"Let's go find him."

And end this.

Once and for all.

The reinforced doors groaned as they swung inward, hinges grinding like bones in a tomb. The room beyond was colder, darker—sterile in some places, blood-soaked in others. Long metal tables. Surgical tools. Syringes neatly arranged next to chains and saws.

Thomas stepped through first, his boots clicking on the black tile.

The temperature dropped.

Phillip followed with the rest of the team, sweeping left and right. The walls were lined with glass cases—some shattered, others fogged from the inside. Inside them, humanoid figures floated, suspended in amber liquid, their flesh twisted and warped beyond recognition. Some were eyeless. Others had metal fused into their arms or spines.

Shadow-4 whispered, "What the hell were they building down here…"

"Not building," Thomas said. "Sacrificing."

At the center of the chamber was a large metal hatch sealed by a biometric lock. Next to it, a console flickered with strange code—numbers and symbols scrolling endlessly, looping in rhythmic pulses.

Phillip moved to the panel and plugged in a bypass probe from his slate.

"It's encrypted," he muttered. "Some sort of homebrewed firmware. But I've seen worse."

Behind them, the rest of the team fanned out, checking the corners, covering the doors.

The rescued woman from earlier sat trembling beside a pillar. She couldn't stop whispering to herself.

"Red inside… red inside… red inside…"

The hatch opened with a hiss.

Lights flickered on.

And a voice echoed through unseen speakers.

"I see you."

It wasn't loud. But it echoed through the bones.

Thomas lifted his rifle.

"Visuals," he snapped.

Reaper One-One's signal kicked in through the uplink in his monocle. The drone had repositioned above them, using its heat map to track through the sublevels.

"Movement. Single target. Down the main corridor, thirty meters. Standing still."

They advanced.

The hall stretched long, lined with murals painted in dried blood. Scenes of fire. Screaming figures. Sun symbols etched into every surface.

And at the end of the hall, bathed in the pale light of a dozen candles, stood the Prophet.

Seemingly the leader.

He was tall. Taller than he looked in the last glimpse. His white coat flowed like robes now, flaring red as it brushed the floor. His face was calm, composed—almost handsome, if not for the fever in his eyes.

He stood with arms folded behind his back.

"I've waited so long for this," he said, voice smooth, pleasant.

Thomas didn't reply.

Montano tilted his head. "You've seen what we've built. You've seen the ash and the flame. And yet you still do not understand. We aren't trying to survive this world."

He spread his arms.

"We are ending it. Perfecting it."

Phillip raised his rifle.

"You're done talking."

Montano didn't flinch.

"I've already succeeded," he said, smiling.

Then the lights cut out.

And something growled behind them.