Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 141: The Hunt Begins

MOA Complex – Pre-Deployment Hangar

0400 Hours, Local Time

Eight Overwatch special forces operatives stood in a line, already geared up in dark-gray tactical suits reinforced with lightweight ceramic plating. Their helmets bore infrared visors and voice-dampening masks. Each soldier carried a suppressed carbine, sidearm, breaching tools, and compact hydration packs. A few had drone uplinks on their backs, others carried explosive charges.

At the front of the line stood Phillip, running his final checks on a data-slate secured to his forearm.

Beside him, Thomas Estaris strapped on a matte-black combat vest. He wore a reinforced load-bearing rig with dual pistol holsters, a suppressed DMR on his back, and an Overwatch officer's insignia across his left chestplate.

"You sure you want to come?" Phillip asked, adjusting his rifle sling.

"I'm not sitting this one out," Thomas replied, snapping a magazine into place. "This cult made it personal the moment they turned children into weapons."

Phillip didn't argue. He tapped his slate and turned to the team.

"Alright. Listen up."

The squad immediately shifted their attention, all eyes on the commander.

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"We drop two clicks south of the chapel. No vehicles past the LZ. We move in on foot, single file. Low profile. No noise."

"Rules of engagement?" asked the lead breacher, callsign Ghost.

"We confirm identification first," Phillip said. "Crimson Dawn operatives only. No indiscriminate fire. That chapel has Red Choir inside—civilians, brainwashed or not. We clear the field the hard way."

Thomas stepped forward.

"We're not here to raze the whole jungle. We're here to carve out the rot. I want that compound under our control by dawn. Bunker, uplink station, ventilation shaft—all of it secured. The Prophet dies if he's there. Any Wakers we capture alive go straight to containment."

Ghost nodded. "Understood."

The final gear checks came quickly. Ammo counted. Radios synced. Comm silence tested. Each operator gave a thumbs up as they filed into the hangar's deployment bay where a UH-60 Blackhawk waited, blades slowly turning in the pre-dawn mist.

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, barely a whisper on the bird's armored shell. Visibility was low, which worked in their favor.

Thomas climbed aboard first, sitting by the open door, eyes scanning the horizon.

Phillip was last in, tapping the pilot's shoulder. "Take us up."

"Roger that. Lifting in ten."

The rotors roared louder, then stabilized as the Blackhawk rose into the sky and banked northward toward Bataan.

Below them, the terrain was a patchwork of shadow and decay. Abandoned roads overgrown with moss. Ghost towns. Forests choked in fog. The wreckage of the old world.

The flight lasted less than ten minutes.

"Approaching LZ," came the pilot's voice in their earpieces.

"Set us down two clicks out. Just past the ridge," Phillip ordered.

"Copy. Touching down in thirty."

The helicopter dropped into a narrow clearing flanked by tall grass and jungle trees. As soon as the skids touched down, the team poured out, moving fast and low.

Boots hit the mud. Suppressed rifles snapped into place. The squad moved without a word, their formation tight as the Blackhawk lifted off again and vanished into the gray sky.

Thomas crouched by the map Phillip displayed on his slate. They were just over two kilometers from the chapel. The jungle between them and the target was dense but manageable.

"We move fast. No chatter unless it's urgent," Phillip whispered. "Shadow-2, you're on point. Shadow-3, flank left. Reaper One-One's feed puts the chapel dead ahead. Let's go."

The jungle swallowed them quickly—massive ferns, twisting vines, and gnarled roots underfoot. Every step was deliberate. The team moved like phantoms.

They stopped twice to scan heat signatures with portable monitors. Both times, it was animals—small, wild things that scattered at the scent of movement.

At 0500 hours, they crested a rise and saw the target.

The ruined chapel stood quiet under the canopy. From their vantage point, it looked like nothing more than a relic of the past—its roof collapsed, altar exposed to the sky.

But they knew better.

Phillip raised a fist.

The squad dropped low behind the underbrush.

Reaper One-One's live feed displayed in Thomas's monocle overlay. The thermal image confirmed at least twelve bodies inside the structure—none of them armed, all kneeling in rows.

Red Choir.

Children.

Thomas exhaled slowly.

"They are so fucked up," Thomas muttered under his breath, eyes hard beneath the visor.

Phillip nodded, adjusting the magnification on his monocle. "They're not fighters. At least not in the conventional sense. But they're part of it. Part of the machine."

"Do they know what they're doing?" Shadow-3 whispered quietly over the comms.

"No," Phillip answered. "And that's the problem. They believe they're doing something holy."

Thomas looked across the line, his voice firm through the channel. "No one opens fire unless I give the order. I don't care what you see. Confirmed identification only."

"Yes, sir," came the hushed reply from the squad.

They watched from cover for a full minute. The Red Choir inside the chapel continued its gentle swaying. The humming was barely audible through the audio tap on Reaper One-One, but it made Thomas's skin crawl. The cadence was like a lullaby stitched to a funeral dirge.

Phillip checked his slate. "Hatch is 300 meters north from the chapel. We split. Team Alpha hits the chapel. Bravo hits the hatch."

Thomas nodded. "I'll go with Alpha."

Phillip tapped his slate. "Bravo with me. Shadow-3, you're with Thomas. Let's make this clean."

Shadow-3 gave a subtle nod, already sliding into position beside Thomas. The team began fanning out, each member vanishing into the undergrowth like ghosts. Leaves barely rustled. Not a word was spoken.

Thomas checked his DMR one last time, then moved down the slope with calculated steps, eyes sweeping for movement. The closer they got, the louder the humming became—low, rhythmic, full of devotion and madness.

Fifty meters to target. The chapel loomed beyond the trees, its crumbling stone walls half-swallowed by vines.

Phillip's voice came through the comms, low and calm.

"Team Bravo in position. Hatch in sight."

Thomas clicked his mic once in response. No words. Just readiness.

This was it.