Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 93: Rest Day and Someone Approaches

Thomas stood atop a rusted catwalk, arms crossed as he observed the refinery coming back to life. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows over the industrial site. Smoke still lingered in the air from the earlier battle, but the refinery was no longer just a battleground—it was now a functioning asset.

Below him, the non-military personnel worked with efficiency. The industrial engineers were busy assessing the damage to the structural integrity of the refinery. Some climbed scaffolding to inspect rusted pipes, while others worked on reinforcing walkways that had partially collapsed from years of neglect.

Nearby, refinery technicians were at the control panels, manually testing each system. Steam hissed from reactivated pressure valves, while fuel pumps groaned as they were brought back online. Each successful test was marked with a thumbs-up between the workers, their confidence growing as the facility stabilized.

"Pumps are operational," one of the logistics officers reported over the radio. "Main pipelines are intact, and we have enough pressure to begin transferring fuel once we finalize containment protocols."

Thomas nodded. "Good. I want detailed reports on all critical systems before we start transport operations."

The officer saluted before returning to his duties.

At the outer edges of the refinery, Ironhold Garrison had already begun fortifying the site.

Captain Logan directed squads to secure key defensive points—elevated catwalks, high-ground positions near storage tanks, and choke points along the refinery’s fence line. A makeshift command post had been established near the entrance, where the captain monitored troop positions and updated their security strategy.

At the front gate, sandbags and makeshift barriers were being set up to reinforce the weak points in the perimeter. Soldiers patrolled in pairs, scanning the distance for threats.

Occasionally, stray infected would wander too close, drawn by the distant noise of machinery being reactivated.

"Contact, south perimeter!"

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One of the sentries called out, his rifle already raised.

Thomas watched as two infected stumbled toward the refinery, their decayed forms moving in erratic motions.

"Take them down," Logan ordered.

Two sharp shots rang out.

Both infected collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

"Keep it up," Logan barked to his men. "We don’t let anything get close. If it moves, it drops."

Thomas felt reassured. Logan had things under control.

Despite the refinery being in good hands, Thomas felt the exhaustion creeping in.

He hadn’t realized just how much strain the past few hours had put on him. Fighting off hordes of infected, eliminating a Titan-class monstrosity, securing an entire refinery—it was all catching up to him.

Phillip, standing beside him on the catwalk, nudged his shoulder.

"You look like hell."

Thomas exhaled. "Feels like it."

"You should rest," Phillip said. "We’re holding the refinery just fine. You’ve done your part. Take a few hours to recharge."

Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t used to resting—not when there was still work to be done.

But Phillip wasn’t wrong. He needed at least a few hours of sleep before heading back to MOA Complex.

"…Alright," Thomas finally admitted. "I’ll stay here for the night."

Phillip grinned. "Good. There’s an executive office inside the main refinery building. One of the engineers found it earlier. It’s got an actual bed—probably used by one of the higher-ups before the world went to hell."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "A bed?"

Phillip shrugged. "Better than sleeping on concrete."

Thomas let out a tired chuckle. "Fine. Show me the way."

The executive office was tucked away in one of the refinery’s main buildings. It was a small but functional room—glass windows overlooking the yard, old corporate documents still scattered across a wooden desk, and a dusty leather chair positioned in front of an outdated computer terminal.

Most importantly—there was a bed.

It was a simple cot, but it was clean and intact. In a world where survival often meant sleeping on dirt or concrete, this was practically a luxury.

Phillip leaned against the doorframe. "Figured you’d appreciate this."

Thomas sat on the edge of the bed, rolling his shoulders. His body ached from the constant movement, the fights, the weight of command.

"Appreciate it is an understatement," Thomas muttered.

Phillip nodded, stepping back. "I’ll let you rest. I’ll be outside if anything happens."

As the door shut, Thomas leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to relax.

His thoughts drifted, not to the war outside, but to the fact that—for tonight—Ironhold Refinery was secure.

And that was enough.

The sound of distant engines rumbled through the refinery.

Thomas stirred awake, groggy and disoriented. His body screamed for more rest, but something felt… off. The noise was out of place—too mechanical, too rhythmic to be infected.

A knock on the door brought him fully awake.

"Supreme Commander, you need to see this," Phillip’s voice came from the other side, urgent but steady.

Thomas sat up, rubbing the exhaustion from his face before reaching for his rifle. He pulled the door open to see Phillip standing there, his expression serious.

"What is it?" Thomas asked.

Phillip motioned for him to follow. "One of our scouts spotted something. You’ll want to see for yourself."

Still shaking off the stiffness from his rest, Thomas followed him through the dim corridors of the refinery until they emerged onto the outer catwalk overlooking the south perimeter.

Captain Logan was already there, binoculars in hand, scanning the horizon.

"What are we looking at?" Thomas asked.

Logan handed him the binoculars. "Convoy. Military trucks. Headed straight for us."

Thomas raised the binoculars to his eyes.

In the distance, six large military trucks were kicking up dust as they rolled down the battered road leading toward Ironhold Refinery. Their formation was tight, disciplined—not a rogue faction, not scavengers.

And then he saw it.

A flag.

The unmistakable insignia of the Philippine Armed Forces.

They were coming straight toward them.

"What are we going to do, Supreme Commander?"

"Please don’t call me that, a sir would be just fine, and Thomas would also do," Thomas reminded.

"Then—sir, what are we going to do?"

"Simple, we are going to find out what they are going to do here."