Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 138: Learning of the Crimson Dawn

Four days after the battle in Bataan.

The sound of the rain outside was muffled behind reinforced concrete and steel. Inside the briefing room, the lights hummed low and steady. Thomas Estaris stood by the holographic table, arms folded, expression unreadable as Phillip keyed in a command. A digital layout flickered to life, casting pale blue light over the room.

Phillip tapped through the files, bringing up a series of dossiers pulled from interrogations and compiled intelligence.

"Alright," Phillip began, his tone clipped, efficient. "We've confirmed the structure of the group responsible for the sabotage at Bataan. They call themselves—Crimson Dawn."

Thomas didn't speak. He nodded once, prompting him to continue.

Phillip pointed at the center node of the projected network.

"At the top is a figure known as Elias Montano. They refer to him as the Crimson Prophet. No confirmed sightings. No known images. The man's practically a myth. But every captive we've pulled names him as the spiritual leader—absolute authority. His word is doctrine. No one's questioned him."

He swiped left, bringing up five interconnected red icons.

"Next tier—The Wakers. Think of them as the inner circle. Only five of them. Each one commands their own operational cell. But they don't just lead—these are the cult's enforcers and... propagators."

"Propagators?" Thomas asked.

Phillip nodded. "They use a diluted strain of the virus. We believe it's chemically altered—weaponized in small doses. Their goal is to induce what they call awakening. In reality, it causes hallucinations, fever spikes, sometimes seizures. A third of their test subjects die. The rest either go mad… or start preaching."

Thomas narrowed his eyes. "So they're turning the virus into a recruitment tool?"

"Exactly," Phillip confirmed. "They inject potential converts, wait to see who survives, then indoctrinate the rest. It's controlled exposure. Not unlike a bioweapon trial program—but run by religious fanatics."

He tapped again, bringing up another set of nodes labeled Tithers.

"Then we've got the Tithers. These are your tactical units. Mobile, fast, brutal. Eight to ten personnel per cell. Think scavengers with an executioner's mindset. They hit survivor enclaves, military convoys, outposts—target soft infrastructure and leave messages behind."

"Messages?" Thomas asked.

Phillip pulled up photos—scenes from Bataan, a highway checkpoint, and a ruined village. Infected bodies strung up in ritualistic patterns. Walls painted in blood. Symbols burned into wood and concrete.

"They leave infected corpses posed like saints, sun symbols drawn in blood, and in some cases—captives sewn into the walls. It's part terror campaign, part religious ritual."

Thomas's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Phillip moved on. "Then we get to the most disturbing element—The Red Choir."

He displayed footage taken from a drone sweep at Bataan: robed civilians, veils over their faces, hands clasped together as they walked through fire, humming in unison.

"These are brainwashed civilians—mostly women and children. Non-combatants by traditional metrics, but they're used as psychological weapons. They chant during raids, recite sermons, and walk ahead of the attack lines. It creates confusion and hesitation among defenders. Soldiers freeze. People panic."

"They're cannon fodder," Thomas said grimly.

Phillip nodded. "Weaponized innocence. And the worst part? Many of them go willingly. The Choir believe their sacrifice will earn them a place in what they call The Ascension."

Thomas clenched his fists. "Sick bastards."

Phillip didn't argue. He tapped again. The last category appeared.

"Final layer—the Scourged."

The hologram shifted. Red-and-black thermal scans, autopsy images, and enhanced motion captures appeared. Grotesque humanoids in various states of decay, with barbed wire wrapped around limbs, bones showing, skin burned.

"These are not your typical infected. They're not turned in the wild. They're engineered—by the Wakers."

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"Engineered how?" Thomas asked, stepping closer.

"They're injected with viral cocktails—cocktails we believe are a blend of live virus, neurostimulants, and suppressants. It renders them immune to pain, partially preserves motor function, and completely obliterates rational thought. The result is... this."

Phillip zoomed in on a freeze frame from the battle—one of the Scourged dragging itself across the concrete, its jaw hanging loose, eyes clouded, but arms still moving, still fighting.

"They act as berserkers. Chain-bound until release. Deployed only when shock value is needed. They can't be reasoned with. They can't be broken. The only way to stop them is full dismemberment or headshot."

Thomas didn't say anything for a long while. He stared at the network map—at the layers of madness, structure, belief.

Finally, he stepped back and said, "This level of organization… all within the first year of collapse?"

Phillip exhaled. "That's what scares me."

"Montano must've started this before the outbreak," Thomas muttered.

"Maybe," Phillip said. "Or maybe it started the moment order fell. Some people look for food. Others look for meaning."

Thomas looked over at him. "And these lunatics think meaning is found in blood, infection, and burning the world down."

"They don't just think it," Phillip said. "They believe it. They live it."

He gestured at the wall where, beyond the blast doors, Waker Ramon was being held under maximum sedation.

"And they'll die for it too."

Thomas stared at the map once more, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

"Not before we bleed them first."

Phillip nodded. "Then we start by bleeding the Waker. He holds the answer to where their base of operations is."

"Very well, let's do that," Thomas agreed.

Thomas Estaris entered first, shadowed closely by Phillip. The room was cold, sterile, built for isolation and observation. Thick walls, a single chair bolted to the floor, and reinforced two-way glass. Cameras tracked movement from every angle. And in the center of it all—chained at the wrists and ankles, head bowed under a buzz of sedation—sat Waker Ramon.

He was awake now. Dried blood caked the sides of his mouth, and his eyes, though sunken, burned with something unnatural.

Phillip stepped forward, a data slate tucked under one arm. He didn't speak right away. Instead, he activated the projection unit embedded in the wall.

A red-hued wireframe diagram spun into view. A digital structure of interconnected nodes—names, roles, patterns.

Thomas folded his arms. "Tell him what we know."

Phillip didn't even glance at Ramon. He faced the projection and spoke like reading from a field manual.

"Crimson Dawn. Structured cult. Five tiers."

He tapped the center.

"Elias Montano. Crimson Prophet. Supreme religious authority. Every member reports to him. His word is gospel—unchallenged."

He shifted to the next ring.

"Five Wakers. Ramon here is one of them. Inner circle. Each Waker oversees indoctrination and deployment. They command cells, act as spiritual gatekeepers, and are responsible for 'awakening' new followers."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Define awakening."

Phillip turned to face Ramon, who grinned faintly at the mention.

"They inject a diluted strain of the virus," Phillip said. "It doesn't always kill. Doesn't always turn. But it always changes people. Induces hallucinations. Cognitive disassociation. Converts survivors into fanatics. The virus becomes a religious rite."

Ramon chuckled, hoarse. "A rite of clarity. Of purpose. You should try it."

Thomas's expression didn't move. "We already have clarity. You're the one in chains."

Unbothered, Ramon leaned back, the chains rattling against steel.

Phillip continued. "Third tier: The Tithers. Assault cells. Eight to ten per group. Tasked with raids, abductions, resource theft. Known for leaving behind signs—blood markings, infected crucified or mutilated, sometimes accompanied by chants recorded and played over speakers. Terror tactics wrapped in scripture."

Ramon closed his eyes, mouthing something silently.

Phillip ignored him.

"Fourth tier: Red Choir. Civilian converts. Women. Children. The broken. Used in raids as living distractions. They walk in front of strike teams, veiled, chanting. They're slow, deliberate, and psychologically devastating. Combatants hesitate. Civilians panic. It works."

Thomas looked to Ramon. "You're proud of using kids as cover?"

Ramon opened one eye.

"They're not cover. They're vessels. Singing the Flame into your ears."

Thomas looked disgusted.

Phillip pointed to the last node.

"Final layer: The Scourged. Engineered infected. Injected with cocktails of virus, stimulants, and blood-thickening agents. Still partially functional. Immune to pain. Mindless, but directed. Unleashed like beasts. They don't fear fire. They don't stop."

He brought up footage—Bataan's motor pool. One Scourged dragging itself through fire. Screaming, burning, but moving.

"They're used for overwhelming fortified positions. Designed for chaos. And based on the medical data we pulled from recent engagements… every Scourged variant originated from your Wakers."

Thomas finally stepped forward.

He looked at Ramon.

"You built all of this. Organized it. Deployed it. For what?"

Ramon smiled.

"To prepare the way. To cleanse. To let the fire walk among the ashes."

Phillip interjected coldly. "We ran your bloodwork, Waker. There's viral presence. You should be dead. Or one of them."

Thomas's eyes narrowed. "But you're not."

Ramon's grin widened. "Because I have seen the Flame. And it has accepted me."

"No," Phillip corrected, tapping on his slate. "Because you were dosed. Controlled exposure. Similar to what you give your initiates—but more refined. Your body fights the infection without succumbing. For now."

He turned to Thomas. "This is the first case we've seen of active viral presence without full conversion or death. His immune response is unique. It's possible they've stumbled onto a crude form of immunization… or at least viral suppression."

Thomas tilted his head slightly. "So he's useful."

Phillip nodded. "If we study his blood, we might be able to reverse-engineer something. A suppressor. Maybe even a pathway toward full resistance."

"And the cost?" Thomas asked.

Phillip hesitated. "Subjects exposed to the Waker formula suffer extreme neurological degradation. Paranoia. Delusion. Fanaticism. They become functionally insane—regardless of infection status."

Thomas let out a breath and stared at Ramon again.

"You think your god saved you," he said quietly.

Ramon's expression lit up. "The Flame doesn't save. It purges. Only those who surrender fully are made whole."

Thomas leaned in, voice low.

"You're not whole. You're a lab rat that happened to survive the first dose. And now? You're going to be the first step in ending this nightmare. You're not special. You're data."

That wiped the grin from Ramon's face for a moment.

He spat at Thomas's boots.

"You mock what you don't understand. But the Prophet is coming. And when he does… even your skies will burn."

Thomas stepped back, flicked the saliva off his boot with a wipe. And then—the system notification chimed in.

[New Mission Available! Tap to see the details of the mission."

"Oh…" Thomas mused. "What could it be."