Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

The next morning, the sun was still low over the horizon, casting pale light across the refinery yard as diesel engines rumbled to life. The air smelled like fuel, dirt, and disinfectant. A single JLTV was parked near the eastern gate—cleaned, fueled, and checked twice over.

Captain Enrique Villamor adjusted the straps on his gear, his uniform still wrinkled from yesterday's chaos. He'd been given a fresh shirt and clean pants, but the boots were still his own—scuffed, worn, and dirt-caked. He stood near the vehicle's rear bumper, checking over the rifle slung at his side.

Phillip approached from the opposite end of the yard, tablet in one hand, a small data pouch in the other.

"Morning, Captain," he said.

Villamor looked up. "Morning."

"You're clear to go. One of our drivers is taking you halfway. You'll split off near the water tower and head in on foot. Safer that way—less noise."

Villamor nodded. "Makes sense."

Phillip held out the pouch. "Mission data. Details of what happened here. Timeline, statements, sensor logs. And that," he added, tapping the top of the pouch, "includes the full transcript of your meeting with Eagle Actual."

Villamor took the pouch and stuffed it in the inside pocket of his vest. "You don't strike me as the type to hand over full transcripts.

"I'm not," Phillip said. "But Thomas wants your people to hear everything. No excuses. No confusion."

Villamor gave a tight nod. "Good call."

Nearby, a pair of Shadows loaded extra water canisters and first-aid packs into the JLTV's side compartments. One of them handed Villamor a folded map, freshly printed and laminated.

"New recon notes," Shadow 3 said. "Shows zombie density between here and your camp. You'll need to cut through the dry creek bed by the half-sunken bus. The old trail's not safe anymore."

Villamor unfolded it briefly, nodded, and tucked it away.

"Thanks."

Phillip stepped back as the driver—a tall, quiet man with a bandana under his helmet—closed the last compartment.

"You'll have him for the first twelve clicks," Phillip said. "After that, you're on your own."

Villamor didn't flinch. "It's fine. I've walked worse."

He moved to the passenger side door and opened it, then paused.

"Anything else I should know?"

Phillip hesitated, then answered flatly. "No one's buried at your camp, right?"

Villamor looked at him for a moment. "Not yet."

"Don't let it happen. Not anymore."

Villamor gave a small nod. "Understood."

He climbed in and shut the door. The engine rumbled a bit louder as the driver revved it once and rolled them toward the gate.

Phillip stood there, arms crossed, watching them disappear past the outer checkpoint.

Inside the JLTV, Villamor sat in silence. The road was rough. The engine noise drowned out most ambient sound, but he didn't need to hear anything. His mind was racing.

He thought about Tinio and Delgado. About Kayla, the nurse. About the five body bags.

And about what this meant.

It wasn't just Overwatch who had a problem. If the virus was truly dormant in everyone—if every death risked a new outbreak—then every survivor camp was one mistake away from getting wiped out.

The JLTV slowed after nearly an hour of driving. The terrain had changed. Thicker trees. Narrower roads. A few overturned vehicles, long since looted, littered the shoulder.

"We're here," the driver said simply.

Villamor opened the door and stepped out.

He looked around, checked his rifle, and adjusted his vest. The driver handed him a small field radio with a single programmed channel.

"Short range," he said. "But if you hit trouble, call. We might not be able to pull you out fast—but we'll try."

Villamor nodded. "Appreciate it."

He turned and walked off without another word, disappearing into the brush.

The driver waited for a full minute before turning the JLTV around and heading back toward the refinery.

The forest was quiet. Birds chirped overhead, and the wind rustled the leaves. But Villamor kept his rifle low and his boots silent. The terrain between here and the camp wasn't guaranteed safe. Just lower risk.

After half an hour, he spotted the half-sunken bus—exactly where the map said it would be. Its tires were buried, windows shattered, moss growing along the side. He stayed wide, moving across the dry creek bed, watching for movement.

Nothing.

Just silence.

Another hour passed before he reached the edge of his camp's perimeter. A low whistle echoed from a nearby outpost—someone had seen him.

Seconds later, a voice called out. "Approaching friendly!"

Three soldiers emerged from behind the barricade, rifles drawn but not aimed.

"Captain!" one of them shouted. "Shit—we thought you were dead!"

Villamor slowed and raised a hand. "Still breathing."

They pulled him inside the gate, locking it behind him.

Inside, everything looked the same—but he could feel the difference. The air wasn't just tense. It was brittle. One wrong move, one bad decision, and this place would burn like the rest.

He made his way to the command tent.

General de Vera stood near a folding table, reviewing patrol notes. He looked up when Villamor stepped inside.

"Captain," he said. "Report."

Villamor set the pouch down on the table.

"You're going to want to see this."

General de Vera looked down at the pouch, then back at Villamor. He didn't open it immediately. The weight in Villamor's voice had said enough already.

"You made it back in one piece," the general said flatly.

"Barely," Villamor replied. "But I wasn't the only one who didn't. We had casualties."

"I know…because I don't see them with you."

"So what happened?"

"The Overwatch would like to establish diplomatic relations," Villamor said firmly. "That's the first thing."

General de Vera narrowed his eyes. "Define 'diplomatic.' Trade? Intel-sharing? Joint patrols?"

Villamor shook his head. "No. More than that. Formal cooperation. But there are terms."

De Vera raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Terms?"

"They're offering security support, medical aid, recon data, and direct military assistance," Villamor said, gesturing to the data pouch. "But in return, they want centralized command authority. Us under them. Our camp operating as a subsidiary—under their protocols."

There was a moment of silence.