Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

September 9, 2025 — MOA Complex, Command Center

The command center buzzed with quiet efficiency. Large screens displayed maps of Metro Manila and surrounding provinces, overlayed with blinking icons and color-coded zones—green for reclaimed sectors, yellow for unstable, red for compromised. One by one, those red zones were shrinking.

Thomas stood near the central operations table, arms crossed, eyes fixed on a cluster of blinking markers along the southern corridor—Taguig, Parañaque, Las Piñas. What had once been ghost towns were now gradually returning to life.

He didn't stand alone.

Rebecca sat at one of the terminals, flipping through paper manifests with a stylus tucked behind her ear. Next to her, Lieutenant Garcia coordinated with Overwatch field units via headset, nodding occasionally and relaying updates.

"Convoy Seven has reached Fort Sucat. Offloading the last batch of Zone C survivors now," Garcia reported.

Thomas turned slightly. "Any issues?"

"Minor delay at checkpoint three. A wheel bearing on the lead transport overheated. Swapped it out within twenty minutes."

"Good. Keep it moving."

He moved toward Rebecca, who was frowning at a handwritten note pinned to a log sheet. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Four families from Zone D backed out," she replied. "Didn't want to leave the MOA Complex. They've been here since the first outbreak. I think… they're scared."

Thomas exhaled. "I don't blame them."

The MOA Complex wasn't just a base anymore. It had become a city—an ark. For nearly two years, it had been the only sanctuary many survivors had ever known. Leaving it, even for a reclaimed safe zone, felt like letting go of a lifeline.

"Send a social worker to talk to them," he said. "Not a soldier. Someone familiar."

Rebecca nodded, tapping her pen against the clipboard. "I already did. Mila and her team are on it."

She glanced up at him. "Are we doing the right thing?"

Thomas didn't answer immediately. He stepped closer to the glass window at the back of the command center, overlooking the transport loading area below. Lines of evacuees stood in orderly rows, clutching bags, blankets, and small boxes of belongings. Soldiers directed them toward idling trucks—green-painted JLTVs and armored buses retrofitted for civilian use.

"We have to give them homes again," Thomas said at last. "Not just shelter. Not just walls and food rations. Real places. With streets. Schools. Gardens. Family tables."

Rebecca walked over and stood beside him. "Some of them were kids when the outbreak started. They don't even remember what a real home looks like."

"Then we show them."

Later — Transport Hub, MOA South Gate

The loading zone bustled with motion. Children clutched dolls and hand-me-down backpacks. Mothers carried babies swaddled in donated blankets. Fathers balanced crates of salvaged heirlooms and dented cookware. It was chaotic, but purposeful—like a city stretching its limbs after a long, stiff sleep.

Thomas and Rebecca walked through the crowd together. He wore his commander's coat over a plain shirt, the sidearm holstered low on his belt more ceremonial than threatening. Rebecca had her sleeves rolled up, a clipboard in hand and her ever-watchful eyes scanning for any signs of stress.

"Ma'am Rebecca!" a small voice called.

They turned.

It was Juno, a six-year-old boy who had lived in the MOA infirmary wing with his older sister since month one. He ran up with a mismatched pair of boots and a worn teddy bear under one arm.

"We're going to the big house with the mango tree!"

Rebecca knelt to his level and smiled. "That's right. Fort Baclaran. They even planted papaya too."

"Can we come back to visit?"

Thomas crouched beside him. "You're not being sent away, Juno. We're opening new homes. You'll always be part of this family. And we'll visit you too."

The boy nodded, reassured. He held up his teddy. "Commander Bear is ready."

Thomas gave him a small salute. "Glad to have him on the mission."

Juno ran back to his sister, who smiled gratefully before ushering him toward the loading ramp.

Afternoon — Fort Baclaran Safe Zone

The lead convoy rolled past improvised barricades and into the fortified grounds of Fort Baclaran, a former military post now converted into a self-sustaining settlement. Rows of modular homes stretched across the field, surrounded by solar lamps, rainwater harvesters, and even a small playground.

Thomas arrived shortly after in a command vehicle, stepping out with Rebecca at his side. Local personnel saluted as they approached, and the logistics officer handed over updated housing records.

"Seventy-three families so far," she said. "The units are holding. Garden beds are operational. Power's stable."

"And morale?" Rebecca asked.

The officer hesitated. "Tentative. Grateful, mostly. But they're clinging to the memory of the MOA. It's all they've known."

Thomas stepped away, watching as children explored the playground—laughing hesitantly, like they'd forgotten what joy was supposed to feel like.

"We'll send outreach volunteers," he said. "Help them settle."

Rebecca touched his arm. "This place is a start."

He looked around. "It has to be."

Evening — Fort Baclaran Community Tent

Dinner that night was simple but warm—vegetable soup, corn rice, and salted fish. The residents ate in groups, some talking softly, others staring into bowls like the food might vanish if they blinked.

Thomas stood near the back of the tent, watching the room like a general surveying a battlefield. Not for threats—just for needs.

Rebecca moved between tables, checking on the elderly, laughing with a few teenagers who recognized her from the infirmary.

A girl approached Thomas—twelve, maybe. Shy eyes and a tattered notebook clutched tight to her chest.

"Commander Estaris?"

He knelt slightly to match her height. "That's me."

She held up the notebook. "My teacher said you'd help us build a library."

Thomas blinked, then smiled. "We will. And I'll make sure there's more than textbooks."

"Can we have stories too?"

He nodded. "As many as you want."

Rebecca joined him as the girl ran off. "That's a new promise," she said.

"I'll keep it," he replied.

Night — MOA Complex, Baby Wing

By the time they returned to the MOA Complex, Amara was already asleep in her crib. The nurse on duty gave a quiet thumbs-up before slipping out of the room to give them space.

Thomas slumped onto the couch. Rebecca joined him, leaning back with a sigh.

"We moved over 300 people today," she said.

"And we'll do more tomorrow."

"But tonight," she said softly, "we rest."

He took her hand.

For all the bloodshed that had marked the first year, for all the horrors that still stirred beyond the walls—tonight felt different.

Not just secure.

Not just stable.

But human.

Rooftop — One Hour Later

Thomas stood alone beneath the stars, one hand resting on the railing, the other wrapped around a warm mug. It wasn't coffee—just weak tea—but it was something.

The transport lights in the distance blinked steadily, forming a thin line of motion stretching southward. A lifeline. A trail from the dead world into a living one.

Rebecca appeared beside him, blanket draped over her shoulders.

"We built a bridge today," she said.

"And tomorrow, we cross it again."

They looked out over the city—not in dread, but with a strange, unfamiliar feeling slowly settling between them.

Hope.

And beneath them, in the nursery below, Amara shifted slightly in her sleep… and smiled.