Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 139: New Mission

The interface shimmered to life in Thomas's peripheral vision—silent, unobtrusive, and as mysterious as ever. No sound accompanied the system's alert, but the rectangular prompt pulsed in a faint red hue only he could see.

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

Thomas blinked once. Phillip didn't notice a thing; he was busy flipping through biometric logs on his slate, refining threat assessments. Waker Ramon, still chained to the steel chair, stared with glassy eyes and a faint smirk.

Thomas tapped the floating interface with an invisible gesture.

The prompt expanded.

[SYSTEM MISSION INTERFACE]

Primary Mission: EXTERMINATE THE CRIMSON DAWN

Objective:

— Locate and eliminate all known Crimson Dawn enclaves.

— Capture or kill Elias Montano, codename: "The Crimson Prophet."

— Destroy cult operations within the region.

Constraints:

— Complete within 14 days to receive full rewards.

— Collateral damage to Overwatch or civilian survivors must be minimized.

Reward:

— [Blood Coin Capsule] ×1

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— [Experience Capsule ] ×1

Thomas stared at the mission text, his expression unreadable. Blood Coin. Experience Capsule. He knew what this means, they are a force multiplier like the ones he had gotten in the early days of the apocalypse. And they are the best item he could have received ever from the system.

He closed the window with a blink. The projection vanished from his sight.

Phillip glanced up. "Everything alright?"

"Perfect," Thomas replied calmly, stepping closer to Ramon again.

The cultist was still grinning. His bloodshot eyes sparkled in the cold light of the interrogation cell, but that arrogance hadn't dulled. Not even after being chained, bloodied, or sedated.

"I'm done asking politely," Thomas said, voice low and sharp.

Waker Ramon raised an eyebrow, like he was being invited to a joke he already knew the punchline to.

"Tell me where your Prophet is hiding," Thomas said. "Tell me where your base is."

Ramon leaned forward, chains scraping. "If I tell you, what would you do?"

"Burn it."

Ramon laughed. "That's what he wants."

Thomas didn't hesitate. He pulled his M9 Beretta from the holster and shot Ramon in the left shoulder.

The sound cracked through the room like a whip. Ramon's head snapped back. Blood misted across the rear wall.

Phillip flinched slightly. "Sir—"

But Ramon only laughed harder, gasping through the pain, teeth red.

"Do it again," Ramon hissed, giddy. "Every time you hurt me, the Flame grows brighter in my blood."

Thomas re-aimed. This time at his right thigh.

"Do it!" Ramon screamed.

But Thomas lowered the weapon, eyes narrowing.

"No," he muttered.

Ramon's breathing slowed, the grin still twitching on his face. "What's the matter, unbeliever? You afraid to finish what you started?"

"No," Thomas said, turning away. "I realized something."

He turned back to Phillip, who raised an eyebrow.

"They're too new," Thomas said. "Their doctrine, their tactics, the engineered infected—it's all too organized for something that's been around for only a few months."

"You said yourself they have structure," Phillip replied.

"Exactly. And structure requires time to spread," Thomas said. "But in this environment? The Philippines? With most of the highways blocked by debris, infected hordes, and abandoned vehicles—there's no way they've spread nationwide. No long-distance travel. No safe convoy routes. Even the military had to rely on airlifts."

Phillip followed the logic quickly. "You think they're local."

"They have to be," Thomas said. "Somewhere near Bataan. That's where the choir came from. Where the Scourged were released. Where Waker Ramon embedded himself."

"They didn't infiltrate from the outside," Phillip muttered. "They grew nearby. Embedded themselves while the region fell."

"Exactly," Thomas nodded. "Which means their home base—whatever temple or bunker they're crawling in—is within walking or at least short-driving distance. Hidden. Maybe even in the jungle."

He turned fully to Phillip. "We're deploying Reaper drones. Three of them. Tactical sweep. Ten-kilometer radius around Bataan."

Phillip nodded instantly. "We can launch it. They'll cover the western highlands, the jungle to the north, and the coastal shantytowns east. We'll configure thermal sweeps and electromagnetic scans for underground bunkers or heat signatures."

Thomas looked back one last time at Ramon.

The Waker sat slumped, blood trickling down his arm, lips still moving in some fevered prayer to a god of flame and death.

"You're done," Thomas muttered to him.

But Ramon's eyes sparked open.

"No," he whispered. "You are."

Thomas didn't respond. He motioned to the guard posted behind the glass. "Put him under again. Heavy sedation. Keep him alive, but barely. I want him conscious enough to bleed. We'll need more samples."

Phillip keyed his slate and activated the drone relay.

"I'll have Reaper One-One, One-Three, and One-Six airborne in thirty minutes," he said. "I'll have them sweep every square inch of terrain that can shelter fifty or more people."

Thomas exhaled through his nose and began walking toward the exit.

"Good. Because I want this cult ended before it even learns how to breathe."

"Understood," Phillip said. "We'll trace their steps. No sermon goes unanswered."

***

Outside the MOA Complex, specifically at the reclamated land that was converted into an airstrip. Three MQ-9 Reaper drones stood prepped on their launch skids, their slender fuselages gleaming with moisture under white arc lamps. Maintenance crews in gray exo-rigs moved with clinical precision, sealing hatches and running last-minute diagnostics. Each drone bore the Overwatch emblem—a crimson eye etched beneath the cockpit housing—and a designation stenciled across the tail: R-11, R-13, R-16.

Their wings buzzed as internal systems hummed online.

"Fuel status?" came the voice of the operations chief over comms.

"Full tanks. Battery modules green. Optics clear."

The command tower lit a green signal.

"Authorization granted. Launch protocol confirmed."

Hydraulic lifts raised the drones into launch position. One by one, their engines roared to life—low, whirring growls that grew into fierce howls as each bird accelerated down the catapult rails.

Then, one after another, they were airborne—sleek silhouettes climbing into the rain-drenched night, their infrared sensors already sweeping the jungle and ruin below.

"Reapers are in the air! I repeat, Reapers are in the air!"

The hunt had begun.