Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 192: Surveying the Area

The sun had risen higher by the time Phillip and his team fanned out deeper into the farmland. The morning haze had lifted, revealing more of the shattered countryside—miles of scorched paddies, leaning water towers, and broken irrigation canals half-swallowed by creeping vines. But for now, the quiet held.

Phillip knelt beside a cracked concrete trough once used to store water for fieldwork. He dipped two fingers into the stagnant pool and raised it to eye level. Algae. No rot. No blood. It wasn't clean, but it wasn't tainted either.

He glanced up. "Shadow Three, status?"

A voice crackled in his earpiece. "Northern perimeter secured. No contact."

"Shadow Four?"

"Eastern ridge clear. Found an overturned cart and a few rusted drums. Nothing hostile."

Phillip nodded to himself. "Keep a tight watch. We're pushing west."

He rose to his feet and gestured for Shadows One and Two to follow. Together, the three-man squad advanced through what was once a narrow farming lane flanked by rows of dry banana trees. Their boots crunched over brittle leaves, each step deliberate, each breath shallow.

A faint breeze stirred the air.

Suddenly, a low groan echoed through the trees.

Phillip raised a fist. Everyone stopped.

He swept his rifle forward and signaled for the others to spread. They moved into flanking positions, rifles raised.

There it was again.

Closer now.

Then a shape stumbled into view—half-clothed, skin pallid and sagging, its left arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Its jaw hung open, and its sunken eyes fixated on the movement in front of it.

"Contact," Phillip whispered.

More emerged behind it. Four. Maybe five. Shufflers. Slow, degraded ones.

Phillip gave a silent signal—three fingers, then a forward sweep.

Suppressors hissed as the team opened fire. Controlled bursts. One by one, the infected dropped. No screeches. No runners. Just the slow tumble of dead bodies hitting dry earth.

Phillip approached the last corpse, still twitching. A final shot ended it.

"Clear," called Shadow Two.

Phillip gave a nod. "Minimal resistance. Looks like they've been isolated a while. Malnourished."

He knelt beside one of the bodies. Its fingernails were cracked and muddy—this one had been digging. A broken rice sack was clutched in one hand. There were bite marks on its side, old ones.

"Desperation turned into infection," he muttered.

Shadow One joined him. "They were trying to harvest what they could. Probably starved. Then one turned."

Phillip exhaled and rose. "Tag the corpses. Burn them before we leave."

They moved on.

The path widened as they reached a cluster of buildings—a farmhouse and two sheds, all half-collapsed. A faded sign lay face-down in the grass. Phillip flipped it over.

San Jose Agrarian Cooperative

Founded 1998

He scanned the area.

The buildings were empty, but not untouched. A few broken crates, a shattered solar lantern, and old footprints in the dust. Some led into the barn. Others… just stopped.

"Movement!" Shadow Two hissed, pointing to the far shed.

Phillip dropped to one knee, weapon up. "Talk to me."

The door was ajar, swinging slightly in the breeze. Then—a shuffle.

"Not infected," someone whispered.

Phillip froze. The voice wasn't from his comms.

Another whisper.

A child.

He lowered his weapon slightly. "Shadow Team—hold fire. Eyes on the shed. I'm going in."

"You sure?" asked Shadow One.

"If it was a trap, they'd already sprung it."

He stepped forward slowly, rifle lowered but ready.

"Inside the shed," he called out. "This is Overwatch. We're not here to hurt you."

Silence.

Then, a soft scuffle.

Phillip nudged the door open with his boot.

The interior was dark, musty. Old tools lined the walls, and sacks of hardened fertilizer were stacked along the far side. In the corner, huddled beneath a torn burlap cloth, were two figures.

A girl, maybe ten, clutching a length of rebar in her small hands. Her clothes were threadbare, face smudged with dirt. Beside her, curled up and half-asleep, was a boy even younger—six, maybe five.

Phillip stepped in slowly, hands raised.

"We're not enemies," he said gently. "You're safe now."

The girl didn't speak. But she didn't strike either.

He removed his helmet, revealing his face. "My name's Phillip. I came from the city. We have food. Clean water. You don't have to hide anymore."

Her grip on the rebar loosened slightly.

Behind him, Shadow One stood by the doorway, weapon lowered.

Phillip knelt down. "What's your name?"

The girl looked at him, eyes hollow but not vacant. "Anya."

He smiled faintly. "Anya. That's a strong name."

Her eyes flicked to the boy. "This is Nico. He's my brother."

"Is anyone else with you?" Phillip asked softly.

She shook her head. "Just us. Mama was… she got sick. Papa went out weeks ago. He didn't come back."

Phillip's jaw tightened.

"I'm going to call my team. We're going to get you out of here. Is that okay?"

Anya hesitated. Then nodded.

Phillip tapped his comms. "Shadow One to Overwatch. Two survivors located. Children. Alert medical for evac prep. ETA pending."

"Copy, Shadow One," came the reply. "Standby for drone coverage. Extraction window opening in thirty."

Phillip turned back to Anya.

"You're going to be alright. I promise."

She nodded again, tears quietly streaking down her cheeks.

Outside, the team began preparing for extraction—clearing a nearby zone, setting up flares, and requesting drone overwatch.

Then came the screech.

A low, unnatural sound—distant, but unmistakable.

Phillip whipped around.

Another. Closer this time. Echoing off the distant hills.

Shadow Two's voice crackled over the comms.

"Sir. We've got movement on the western ridge. Lots of it."

Phillip's blood ran cold.

He reached for Anya and pulled her close, motioning for Shadow One to grab the boy.

"Fall back to the LZ. Move, now!"

As they sprinted through the field, the wind shifted again.

And from beyond the trees came the unmistakable sound of a Bloom Nest cracking open.

The sky began to darken.

Phillip looked up.

And froze.

Descending from the clouds—large, bat-like shapes began circling the field.

Reapers.

Not drones.

But the infected ones.

"Shadow One to Overwatch," he shouted. "We have airborne hostile variants! I repeat, Reapers in the air! We need immediate evac—"

Static.

Then silence.

The comms went dead.

And the sky screamed.