Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 127: Infiltration

The armored gates of the Bataan compound groaned as they slid open.

Rust scraped against rust, and the sentries above held their breath, rifles steady, eyes fixed on the five figures standing just outside the outer checkpoint. The rain hadn't stopped all day, and now it fell in sheets, soaking the dirt road and the people standing on it.

They looked pitiful.

The man in front had a wooden stump for a hand, wrapped in bandages long since stained with mud and blood. The one behind him limped on a hand-carved crutch. A woman with hollow cheeks clutched a soaked blanket around her shoulders, carrying a child too old to be asleep and too silent to be calm. The last man had a crooked nose and black rings under his eyes.

They didn't speak.

They just stood there, shivering and wet, heads low.

A flashlight beamed down on them from the guard tower. One of the sentries cursed under his breath.

"Jesus… look at them."

"They carrying anything?"

"Nothing but a ragged pack."

A short burst of radio chatter came from the tower. Then a voice crackled from the gate's intercom.

"Step forward slowly. Hands where we can see them."

The man with the wooden stump nodded weakly. Matias, the lead Penitent, took a careful step forward. His voice cracked with exhaustion and cold.

"We're not sick," he called up. "We're just hungry. Please. We heard this was a safe zone."

He spoke with the trembling cadence of a man who hadn't slept in days — a cadence he had perfected during months of rehearsed suffering.

One of the guards climbed down and opened the small personnel gate. He was young, early twenties, wearing a loose-fitting Army uniform. His eyes flicked between them cautiously.

"Turn around. Let me see your necks."

The Penitents obeyed without protest. No bite marks. No signs of infection. Just bruises, old wounds, and desperation carved into every line of their bodies.

The young guard's expression softened.

He waved to his comrade. "Clear."

The main gates opened wider. Four soldiers moved forward with rifles raised but lowered them slightly as the Penitents passed through.

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Matias stumbled and nearly fell. One of the guards caught his arm and steadied him.

"You're safe now, sir," the soldier said, voice gentler than expected. "You're with us."

Matias looked up with glassy eyes.

"Thank you."

He meant it. Not for the safety — but for the trust.

They were taken to a quarantine tent first.

Standard protocol.

An old nurse with a face like sun-baked leather checked their vitals. She moved with practiced efficiency, not unkind, but distant. They had herded in too many strangers by now. Most stayed. Some didn't last a week.

Matias feigned a low fever, barely enough to raise suspicion, just enough to explain his weakness. The nurse noted it and handed him a blanket.

The others answered names they'd been assigned weeks ago:

Rosalyn – a quiet woman with a convincing twitch, claimed to have escaped from a raided farming village.

Benito – the limping one, said he'd been a driver before everything went to hell.

Child – no real name, just "Baby Boy" on the ledger. Said to be her nephew.

Sandro – the man with the crooked nose, said he used to fix radios.

Each lie had been tailored. Each story backed with rehearsed details and shared memories.

By nightfall, a military officer stepped into the tent — not in uniform, but clearly someone in charge. Holster on his hip. Narrow eyes. A clipboard in hand.

"General De Vera wants full background on new entries," he said without preamble. "Standard interview."

He pulled over a plastic chair and sat down across from Matias.

"Name?"

"Matias Villanueva."

"Age?"

"Forty-six."

"Before the outbreak?"

"Construction. Heavy equipment."

"Any military service?"

"ROTC. College days."

The officer wrote without looking up.

"Where were you last month?"

"Hiding in what's left of Balanga."

"How did you find this camp?"

"Ran into a scavenger. Said this was the only safe place left."

"Anyone sick with you?"

"No, sir."

"Ever been scratched?"

Matias hesitated. Just long enough to be believable.

"...I saw a cousin get bit. I ran."

The officer tapped his pen against the clipboard.

"You know how many people say that exact thing?"

"I believe it," Matias said with a slight smile. "Some lies are easier to carry than the truth."

The officer looked up for the first time. Just a glance.

Then he stood and walked out.

Ten minutes later, a soldier returned.

"You're in."

They were given cots in Sector 3, the refugee quarter inside the base. Dozens of makeshift tents lined up under military tarp canopies. People moved like ghosts — worn faces, hollow eyes, hands always busy. Washing clothes. Cooking rice. Fixing gear. Watching the fences.

The Penitents played their roles perfectly.

Rosalyn helped in the field kitchen without complaint. Benito offered to assist in the motor pool, dragging his limp foot behind him like it had always been there. Sandro fiddled with a broken handheld radio and got it working by evening, earning mild praise.

Matias wandered the perimeter.

Not obviously. Never enough to draw suspicion. He helped carry crates, fetched water, and spoke softly when asked. But his eyes moved constantly, noting everything:

The outer fence was made of chain link reinforced with barbed wire — eight feet high. Guard towers every 40 meters.

The main gates were manually operated, with hydraulic backup.

Roving patrols rotated every three hours, less frequent at night.

The infirmary was heavily guarded.

Armory locked tight.

Most importantly: the gates were opened from the inside.

Only a few men had access — all wore green armbands. He memorized their faces.

He whispered every detail to Rosalyn that night in their tent.

She nodded.

"Three days," she murmured.

"Maybe two," Matias replied.

They said nothing else.

Across the camp, guards joked about the new arrivals. Called them lucky. Said it was nice to see good people still walking around. Even the officer who'd interviewed them told another soldier, "These ones seem alright."

And as they all went about their routines, trusting the quiet man with the stump and the limping worker with kind eyes—

None of them knew they had let wolves through the gates.

And behind them, far beyond the hills, the Chosen waited.

Starving.