Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The morning sun bore down on the galvanized roofs of Fort Baclaran, but the breeze from the coast softened the heat. Salt clung to the air. From atop the half-constructed watchtower, Thomas Estaris could see it all—the rows of prefab homes, the schoolhouse made of reinforced shipping containers, the solar field to the east. The place was rough, imperfect, but undeniably alive.

He adjusted the collar of his field coat and stepped down the tower's steel ladder. Lieutenant Garcia was already waiting for him at the bottom, datapad in hand.

"Morning reports," one of his staff said, tapping the screen. "Water reserves are holding. The northern greenhouse unit needs filter replacements, but the yield is still above minimum."

Thomas took the pad, scrolling through updates. "Security patrols?"

"Five-man rotations every three hours. No incidents. Scavenger teams returned from Cavite with battery units and a couple of working water pumps. No hostile encounters."

Thomas nodded. "And the civilians?"

Garcia hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Still adjusting. A few complaints about shared housing. Some issues with food distribution—nothing serious, just ration anxiety. They've been through worse."

Thomas handed back the pad. "Keep an eye on it. If tensions rise, I want to know before fists start flying."

"Understood."

Rebecca approached from the main road, a canvas folder tucked under one arm. She wore a light jacket and sturdy boots, her hair pulled into a braid. Despite the growing circles under her eyes, she moved with steady confidence.

"Governor Santos confirmed," she said as she joined them. "Las Piñas is ready to receive twenty more families. Power's back, schools cleaned, water tested. The mayor's kid is already sketching new park layouts."

Thomas blinked. "They kept their mayor?"

"Apparently," she said. "Her dad died in the first month. She stepped in. Seventeen years old."

Garcia let out a low whistle. "World grows you fast now."

Thomas looked at Rebecca. "Think she's ready?"

"Doesn't matter. She has to be."

They moved together toward the council pavilion—an open-air space made of corrugated tin and reclaimed wood, where representatives from nearby zones met every few days to coordinate. Inside, a dozen voices echoed in overlapping conversations—community leaders, logistics officers, teachers, medics. No titles. Just survivors.

When Thomas and Rebecca entered, the room quieted.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

"Let's begin."

Midday — Fort Baclaran School Grounds

Children's laughter filled the air like birdsong.

Rebecca walked among them, watching as two boys chased each other around the swings, their dusty shoes kicking up small clouds. A teacher waved at her from the steps of the schoolhouse, where a chalkboard lesson about crop rotation was visible through the open door.

One of the younger girls tugged at Rebecca's coat. "Are you Amara's mom?"

Rebecca smiled. "I am."

"Can she play with us when she's bigger?"

"Definitely."

She knelt beside the girl. "What's your name?"

"Luna."

"That's a beautiful name."

The girl beamed, then ran off to rejoin the others.

A few minutes later, a small van rolled into the lot. Two medics stepped out, followed by a volunteer librarian carrying a box of books. Rebecca helped unload—children's picture books, a few classics, and a stack of manuals on engineering and first aid.

"We're building something here," she murmured aloud.

"Yeah," said one of the medics. "Something that might actually last."

Afternoon — MOA Complex, Nursery

Back at the MOA Complex, Amara slept peacefully beneath the soft whir of the room's fan. Nurse Mila stood watch nearby, recording temperature logs and noting feed intervals. The baby's vitals were healthy. Her development was slightly ahead of schedule. And more than once, Mila swore the child had smiled at her while half-asleep.

"She's strong," she whispered, brushing a tiny curl off Amara's forehead.

Outside, preparations for another round of relocations were underway.

Same Time — Road to Las Piñas

Thomas and Rebecca sat in the back of a JLTV as it rumbled over cracked pavement and half-cleared roadways. They passed under old flyovers now covered in vines, drove through toll gates long abandoned, and slowed only when flocks of birds scattered from empty intersections.

"Do you ever think about it?" Rebecca asked quietly.

"About what?"

"Where we'd be if the outbreak never happened."

Thomas thought for a moment. "I'd probably be arguing about fuel contracts. You'd be stuck in some diplomatic briefing."

She laughed softly. "And we'd never have met."

He turned his head toward her. "That's the part I'd regret."

Their vehicle pulled to a stop at a checkpoint. A soldier waved them through. They entered Las Piñas proper—still bruised from the early days, but undeniably healing. Colorful banners marked open markets. Laundry fluttered on wires strung between homes. Dogs barked. Children ran barefoot in alleys. Life, in all its stubborn persistence.

They were greeted by Mayor Aria Santos—a girl barely old enough to vote in the old world. She stood straight, eyes sharp, posture stiff from responsibility.

"Commander. Director," she said respectfully. "Welcome to Las Piñas."

Evening — Las Piñas Community Hall

The council meeting was held inside an old gymnasium, where salvaged benches lined the floor and lights hung from solar-charged battery packs. Aria led the discussion—firm, deliberate, every bit the leader her people needed.

Thomas watched her, quietly impressed. When the meeting ended, he offered her a hand.

"You're doing well."

She shook it. "I'm doing what has to be done."

"That's enough."

They stepped outside under the setting sun. The convoy had already begun offloading. Survivors stepped down from the buses, eyes scanning their new surroundings.

"Some of them will cry tonight," Aria said softly. "This place isn't MOA."

"No," Thomas agreed. "But one day, they'll say the same thing about here."

Rebecca handed Aria a small package. "From the MOA nursery staff. Diapers. Blankets. Two jars of powdered formula."

Aria blinked. "How'd you—?"

"We heard," Rebecca said gently.

The young mayor smiled faintly. "Her name's Tala."

"Then we'll make sure she grows up safe."

Late Night — MOA Complex, Observation Deck

Hours later, Thomas and Rebecca returned home.

The skyline of Manila shimmered in the distance—still scarred, still healing. Lights blinked from rooftops, and generators hummed beneath the street grids.

Amara lay asleep between them. She had grown more in two weeks than they thought possible. Already her eyes tracked movement. Already her grip was strong.

"I never imagined this," Thomas said, brushing her tiny hand.

"Imagined what?" Rebecca asked.

"Peace. In pieces. Like building it one brick at a time."

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Then let's keep building."

Late Night — MOA Complex, Command Center

The soft hum of monitors and ceiling fans filled the dim command center, casting a pale glow over the room's metal surfaces. A skeleton crew remained on duty—two analysts, a communications officer, and Sergeant Del Rosario, who oversaw the night watch.

The command center had grown quieter over the months as peace returned in patches. Gone were the days of constant red alerts, breach sirens, and frantic broadcasts. These days, most updates were routine—transport logs, weather reports, resource inventories.

But tonight felt… off.

Del Rosario stared at the incoming drone telemetry from Reaper One-Two, which had been running a standard patrol over the southern corridor near Alabang. At first, he thought it was just a flock of birds—maybe the heat signatures were distorted. But the movement was too deliberate, too slow.

And too many.

"Corporal," he said, straightening. "Check the visual feed from Reaper One-Two. South grid, sectors L-3 through L-6."

The corporal tapped a few keys. The main screen shifted from local maps to infrared video—fuzzy at first, then sharpening as the drone zoomed in.

Rows.

Dozens.

No—hundreds.

Moving in a sluggish, meandering flow along the south expressway. Their shapes blurry and uncoordinated, but unmistakable.

Zombies.

A wave of them.

"Jesus," the corporal whispered. "Where the hell did they come from?"

Del Rosario didn't answer. He leaned forward and tagged the feed, locking its coordinates. "Get me Central. Now."

The communications officer jumped into action, patching a direct line to the senior operations staff.

Within seconds, the secure line buzzed.

Same Time — Conrad, Thomas's room.

Thomas was already half-awake when the satellite phone by his cot vibrated. He rubbed his face, reached for it, and answered without hesitation.

"Estaris."

"Sir," Del Rosario's voice came through, tense. "We've got movement. Reaper drone picked up a mass migration heading north. Sector L-3 to L-6. They're not stragglers."

Thomas sat up fully, every trace of fatigue gone. "Estimate?"

"Could be over a thousand. Maybe more. Uniform direction. Looks like they're converging."

Rebecca, awakened by the call, sat up beside him, watching his expression tighten.

"Converging where?" Thomas asked.

A pause.

"MOA Complex, sir."

Thomas stood, already pulling on his gear. "Sound the alert. Wake everyone in the command center. I want the other Reapers airborne now. Reposition Spooky One to standby. We're not taking chances."

"Yes, sir."

He ended the call and turned to Rebecca.

Her face was calm, but pale. "Another wave?"

He nodded. "Bigger than we've seen in months. It's been so long since the wave struck us and there wasn't even a notification from the system."

She reached instinctively for her radio and her jacket. "We need to be on the command center."

Thomas fastened the last strap on his belt. "No, you watch over our kid."

"Wait what?"

"Yes. stay with Amara. I will handle this. You are a mother now."